


Dereliction [on hiatus.]

by nyoengland



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, M/M, Nordic Five + England, Post-Apocalypse, Zombie Apocalypse, past America/Germany - Freeform, updates mostly on tuesdays
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-03-21 18:18:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13746609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyoengland/pseuds/nyoengland
Summary: Stranded in a post-Apocalyptic world with a team of European madmen, it is inevitable that Arthur and his group run into other survivors. He forms a confusing, precarious and all-consuming relationship with the leader of another group, Alfred Jones, that threatens to encompass him and overturn everything he has ever known.While dealing with those of the undead.Hiatus, as of 10th July 2018.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> Dereliction; noun
> 
> 1\. an intentional abandonment; the state of being abandoned 
> 
> 2\. a recession of water leaving permanently dry land 
> 
> 3 intentional or conscious neglect, delinquency dereliction of duty; fault, shortcoming

 

* * *

_june_

_three crosses on the calendar_

* * *

 

Christ, it was hot.

Not that he believed in one anyway, Arthur thinks coldly as his tired eyes scan the wasteland that used to be beautiful motherfucking America.

Yes. It was a stupid idea. Hey, at least it had sounded better in his head. From all the chapters of zombie stories he’d devoured, how many pages he’d leafed through about some mock guide prepping for the apocalypse. They were like fairy stories, he’d told himself.

No one would have guessed it was somehow real.

But no, he isn’t here just to look at the dying shrubs of grass nor the wilting trees adorning the flat land of Kansas. Not as densely populated, and it was pretty well stocked, Matthias had claimed. Whatever. He’s waiting for a Dorothy, flying house and magical portal and all.

God, he wants a Toto. Although he’s mostly a cat person. He misses Crumpet. 

“Art, we’re going inside,” Tino cajoles lightly, and Arthur groans once, running a hand over his dusty hair, his blond hair drained of its luster. Even if university was once running for the Guinness World Record of smallest bathroom known to man, it still produced water. Walmart still sold passable soap. Better than nothing. “Berwald’ll be back soon, I’m sure.”

 “Yes, Mom,” he says dryly, a wan smile painted on his face. “Our ever reliable Swedish muscle.”

As soon as they squirrel back to the hutch that they call hideout, Arthur baffles himself again by the size of the group that they agreed to bring on.

First, yeah, there’s him. Arthur. Used to be some English Literature major that thought going to the States was a bleeding good idea. _Ivy League_ , his brothers had crooned in his ears before packing him off, bunged up suitcases with obnoxious stickers slapped on it and all. Hell, all he had now was a ranged weapon and bloody arrows.

Then there was Matthias, pseudo ‘leader’ of the group. Madman always had an axe stashed in the corner of his house, whether it was against his fridge at his dorm or next to Berwald’s chair in their hideout. Arthur swears that one of these days, Matthias’ tangents of laughing would be the one to draw a horde of zombies Tino couldn’t snipe to death. 

Right. Tino. Finnish lunatic that mastered the art of putting his best foot forward. If that soft disposition didn’t get you to relax, being on the receiving end of his sniper gun – nicknamed Hanatamago – would probably do the trick. Oh, and he and Berwald were firmly an item. They along with Matthias had picked his and Lukas’ shivering arses off the abandoned drive through two months in.

Lukas, Arthur’s best friend, was finishing up his last year in uni when the apocalypse had started. It had been a good arrangement; they had been together since their joint first years and had been roomies since, and looked like the most apathetic college student around, a real feat. Well, uni was behind them and Lukas had now become the team’s pseudo medic after their stint in the drive through.

Berwald was the Swede head over heels for their sniper, and was their resident muscle, however many times Matthias objected. Honestly, if Arthur hadn’t been accustomed to the staring and long, absent silences, his life with them would be one, constant jumpscare. Fortunately, Berwald could _cook_.

Last was Emil. A kid that they had picked up while they were moving south from Brown. Rhode Island was probably the worst place they could have picked for a starting location, so when the precarious reports and infections started, they – the five of them, at least – had bolted. Near Missouri, Emil had been surviving on bottles of water and melting candy corn in an abandoned gas station. They’d come in for supplies; Emil had carried a gun then asked to join them in return for money and not being shot at. Fair game. That food kept them going for long enough but another pair of capable hands kept them going even longer. 

As a result, Arthur decides not to bitch about it any more. That, and the fact that Berwald brought dinner and that everything was a little less annoying with the smell of food in the air.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” Arthur asks, sliding into the chair, the chair creaking in protest. 

“S’me potatoes,” Berwald mutters, but his expression betrays some happiness as he distributes the meal in crude plastic bowls. “Found s’me venison lying around. Made a stew.”

“Thanks heaps,” Arthur mumbles, and grabs a bowl, not feeling as self conscious as it sloshes violently. “Has Lukas come back?”

“J’st in time,” Berwald nods, gesturing with a gaze to his figure at the back. “Says he noticed a signal or two. T’ld Matthias.”

“It’s been a while, definitely,” Arthur replies, carefully attempting not to slurp the broth too quickly. Eat like a European, some voice croons in his subconscious. Must now be the kindling for the fire. “Do you know where they are?”

 “No,” Berwald says, his voice muffled by a chunk of potato. “They should be looking f’r shelter tonight. B’st be prepared.”

No more words are shared between the two as they continue what they call dinner in this deserted land.

* * *

Turns out, Berwald was right.

They arrive a little bit after sundown, when Lukas’ using some ointment on Emil’s pulled leg from a high risk raid that they had gone on two sunrises ago. Hanatamago is perched precariously on what should have been a desk, and Tino and Berwald are conversing lightly in the kitchen – well. Really, where they keep the soup cans nowadays is their kitchen. Matthias is straightening out his shirt, picking worriedly at the edge where there was a mishap with the iron when they had it, and Arthur is sitting outside again, watching the plains for any sign of the movement. He jumps once he sees the light.

“Madmen outside,” he says quickly, and it’s almost like clockwork how they take up their weapons. Hana fits in Tino’s arms, Lukas snatches his and Emil’s guns, Matthias nabs his axe, Berwald morosely straightens his glasses and Arthur’s fingers find his bow and sheath. “They’re moving relatively fast, so I suppose they’re not undead.”

That alone is enough to ease _some_ tension, but Tino is clearly not convinced as he props up Hana on the rotting railing of the porch. Yes, even though they’re not undead, they have brains, and therefore may be able to handle themselves in a fight.

The six of them do not move until around thirty metres, where a young man’s voice yelps and tells them to not shoot. Tino’s violet gaze does not waver until another one, a French one this time, and calls that they are weaponless.

“Tino,” Berwald says quietly, his voice deep as he lays a hand on his partner’s shoulder. “T’ke the crosswire off them, for n’w.”

Tino nods once, mutely, but his grip on Hana doesn’t lessen as they get closer and closer. Slowly, blonds, brunettes, a light and several rucksacks present themselves. They seem relatively young, and Arthur can sense that Berwald is about to start his Intimidation Tactics (trademark sign) until Matthias lets out a yelp, his axe clanging to the floor as he embraces the first man, a mess of blond hair and limbs as the man lets out a muffled cry of excitement as well. For a moment, both groups stand bewildered, just a little confused.

Lukas looks like he’s out for blood.

 “Ah _man_ , Alfred Jones, you sick bastard,” Matthias laughs, ruffling the hair of the blond boy. “Not even giving me a shout on Skype that you were hauling your ass out here from the States! I thought you were off rotting in Germany with your boyfriend or something.”

“Well, Skype didn’t like my lack of wifi,” this Jones boy says, and as Arthur peers a little closer he has electric blue eyes tucked behind a pair of dusty glasses, blond hair that puts the sun to shame and a bright smile that stands out so starkly towards the desolateness of their landscape. Frankly, some sort of Adonis amongst men, but that doesn’t stop Arthur from bristling and sharply turning away. Feelings were useless, more so in a zombie apocalypse.

Anyway, he has a boyfriend.

“I didn’t think meeting you IRL for the first time would be like this, though.”

 “…Matthias, do you know him?” Lukas says, his tone clipped. Arthur can sense the jealousy wafting in the air, but Matthias is blissfully unaware as he grins at him.

“Yeah! I found this guy on some forum about, uh, American football, wasn’t it? This kid plays – well, played – it at his uni, so we got friendly. Hit this punk up on Skype with another friend of his – his boyfriend’s bro, and the rest is history. We were even planning a meet up…yeah. Al, have you seen Gil?”

“His albino’s ass is a bit late, our group split into two,” Alfred elaborated, and behind him, Arthur could hear Lukas exhale once. 

“It’s OK, there’s nothing to be jealous of,” Arthur hisses in his ear, to which Lukas splutters. “Densen’s got his wide eyes over you. Anyway, he keeps on telling Tino that Emil’s your son, so there’s nothing to worry about." 

“ _You’re_ already ogling Jones, don’t think I haven’t noticed,” Lukas snipes back, but he does sound relieved. “Don’t fuck with a taken man, especially if they’re staying with us.”

“Wish I had time,” Arthur retorts, but exchanges a look with Berwald, standing near the banister. What if they join their group…?

Well. Six people were quite a large number already. Yes, strength in numbers, but what if six turned to six hundred and they had to find something more permanent? Or worse yet, infighting broke out and people lost their lives at something other than mercy killings or a zombie horde. Arthur didn’t like the idea of being some supporting character in those books that only was revealed dead after the dust had settled.

“We’re not joining them,” comes Tino’s voice, and Arthur is jolted out of his reverie by the harshness of his teammate’s tone. “No way. They just said another group’s coming from the south in three days. How do we know that they’re not a finishing group?”

“Tino, I know this guy,” Matthias starts, but Tino snarls, Hanatamago quivering in his hand. “Tino, he’s a good guy and I trust him-”

“So _what_? Haven’t you forgotten what happened with Katyusha and Natalia? Never again, thanks,” Tino says coldly. “We lost half of our food and a third of our ammo. Unless we know they’re going to pull their weight, forget it.”

“Haven’t you forgotten who the leader is?” Matthias says snippily, and elbows Berwald, who simply pursues his lips and turns again. “Hell, fine. _They’re_ joining _us_ and that’s final.”

“ _Jumalauta_ ,” Tino swears in Finnish and cradles Hana again. “Unless they have enough on them to support us and another mystery group, I’m borrowing Emil’s and shooting myself.”

“I’ll pass,” comes Emil’s reply, but another blond man comes forward, a timid expression on his face.

“N-No one needs to get hurt,” he stutters, and then he slings down his black rucksack, contents swinging forward as he pulls open the zipper. A green cup is slung on the hook of the bag. Cans of luncheon meat. Plastic bottles, their labels torn off. Slightly bent metal spoons. A sterile medicine pack, white plastic reflecting the lamp as Arthur feels Lukas perk up. Surely, the little satchel they had been using to store items that they had found during raids would be a boon. “Please, all our bags are full of food and ammo and supplies. There are only eleven of us in total…six are coming in a few days…” 

“Tino,” Berwald says gently, and nudges him. “Medical supplies.”

Tino’s lips are still pursued, but he shares a glance with Matthias who nods once. He takes one more look at the man’s pleading expression, one at the medicine pack, then simply nods before taking Hanatamago back inside. 

“Well, that’s a yes, then!” Matthias beams after a long, tenacious pause, slapping Alfred on the back. “Welcome to the gang. Come inside!”

 

* * *

The ten of them file inside, but Arthur dithers until he’s the last man, scanning the landscape for any signs of life before someone clears his throat and he whips around, bowstring bobbing on his shoulder. 

“Hey,” Alfred says, eyebrows raised, and Arthur’s traitorous heart skips a beat as he is reminded how stunning this boy is. “Waiting for something?”  
  
“No,” Arthur answers shortly. “Just a precaution, so we don’t have to take night patrol.”

“Who were…Katyusha and Natalia?” Alfred asks, looking behind him to the dimly light room of their safe house. “They sound interesting enough.”

“Don’t know, they were here and left before Lukas and I joined up,” Arthur says sagely, reclining a little on the banister. “Apparently they got off with a lot of things, and that’s why…what just happened just happened. Other than that, Tino doesn't want to talk about it, Matthias changes the subject and Berwald just doesn't talk that much.” 

“Uh huh,” Alfred says, and leans forward, tilting his head in such a fashion that Arthur has to remind himself that he has a boyfriend. “Real interesting. How do you know you can trust them?”

 “They saved my life,” Arthur retorts, all attraction dissolving as he realises that this man is trying to turn him against his teammates. “More times than I’ve ever saved theirs. I owe them. Now if you’re done, can you let me go inside, please?”

Alfred steps back and Arthur marches past him, hot anger filling his head like a sandstorm as he bites back another scathing retort, failing to notice Alfred’s curious eyes fixing on the small of his back as he walks away. 


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which arthur and the team of european madmen get to know group two, and arthur leaves no stone unturned when discussing jones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been really pissy with FFNet recently, and publishing on archive is so much better tbh. bear with me ;v;

* * *

 june

six crosses on the calendar

* * *

The third group still hasn’t arrived.

Nevertheless, it seems that Matthias and Alfred are doing their level best to drum up group unity, even though Matthias knows that it’ll be a lost cause on Tino for at _least_ three weeks. 

Their current team of eleven is occasionally stifling for Arthur to spend time with; especially with that obnoxious Frenchman, Francis. Jesus, how more _French_ could he get with his name, other than Pierre or Omelette Du Fromage?

Omelette _au_ fromage, Francis had stiffly corrected him but he had coupled it with a wink, his hand quickly reaching down to grope at Arthur’s belt before Arthur hauled him by the back of his shirt collar – thank God for their matching heights – and dragged him outside screaming. Of course, he had been stopped, but at least Francis had stopped attempts to molest both him and Lukas for the rest of the week.

On the topic of their newfound teammates, he found them almost as odd as his own. Matthew – or something, he on occasion forgot the lad’s name – was as shy as they came but was probably the most sociably pleasant to deal with. Apparently, he was Jones’ twin, although they only shared a mother. Could have been the most popular person in the group if he didn’t spend half of his day sitting on the couch, his hands clasped together and staring at the dingy calendar perched next to the coffee stained magazines that had been lying there since day one.

Yao and Ivan were like bread and butter – via Jones Matthias had told the team that they had operated as a pair before fetching up with the group. Yao was an agile man with his raven black hair tied up in a loose ponytail, and was probably bilingual by the way he rapidly cursed at Francis in Mandarin for attempting to grope his ass. That, and he knocked him unconscious with a large metal bowl thing, so with that alone he had earned Arthur’s respect.

Ivan, on the other hand, was the one now taking Berwald’s spot as the unofficial most intimidating man in the universe. He sat in the corner, leafed through the same coffee stained magazines, and simply cleaned his weapons. He would be less alarming if they weren’t blades the size of vegetable knives, and it seemed that he threw them around. Oh, and there was also the idea of his scarf being worn all the time…

Jones simply existed. End of story.

Christ, Arthur hates that man already, but decides to keep his mouth shut on the whole incident outside on the porch.

* * *

Matthew sits on the edge of his seat, staying as far from Hanatamago as he fiddles with their bunged up brown radio, adjusting the buttons again. A loud _screech_ emits from the machine when he turns a dial too far, and the whole team winces. Matthias and Alfred had attempted, as the joint leaders of the group, to make their teams sit together, with…varying results. Tino sits sullenly at the corner with Berwald exchanging a few, quiet words with Yao close by. Ivan sits on the opposite corner, half empty green glass bottle in his hand, while Francis lingers at Matthew’s side, his hands and eyes vacant. Arthur, Lukas and Emil were chatting quietly to themselves when the noise struck. 

“S-Sorry,” Matthew stutters, a habit that he has yet to shake off. “I’m trying to locate the third group.”  
“Good luck with that,” Lukas throws out, then turns back to Arthur and Emil. “Wonder why _he’s_ so obsessed with the other team, anyway.”

“Wonder why _you’re_ so obsessed with Matthias, the way he’s been cottoning on to Alfred’s side the past few days,” Emil teases, successfully garnering a blush and a glare at the American. “Seriously, if he didn’t already have a boyfriend I’d guess that they were dating online.”

“Welcome to the phrase cheating, Emil,” Arthur replies, scooping both of his knees to his chin. “Who knows, the two of them could be snogging outside while Lukas sleeps."

“If he was cheating on me – not like we’re an item or anything, of course – he would do it in broad daylight, not behind the scenes,” Lukas laughs, but there is bitterness in his voice as he watches Matthias and Alfred joke with each other, Alfred ruffling his hair as they pass a bottle of water around. “You can’t keep a secret around here without dying, anyway.”

“Hell, if I were Matthias, I’d rather be with the person I’ve been traveling with longer,” Emil says, the edge of his voice a little serrated as he follows Lukas’ gaze. “At least, I’d rather Lukas over Alfred.”

“Sunshine Kirkland would object, over here,” Lukas says, sticking out his tongue and sputtering with laughter as Arthur tugs on his stray curl in protest. “Hey, am I joking?”

“Both Jones and Densen are absolutely terrible, so sod that,” Arthur groaned, burying his face in his hands. “If there were the choice between them or the zombie herd, I’d take them between the ears and bring them with me.” 

“You’re hurting my feelings,” Lukas says melodramatically, and Arthur fights back a snort as Lukas fake dabs at his forehead. “Please, you’d rather plant them in front of the herd and bolt.”

“Survival one oh one,” Arthur sighs, taking a drink of the water bottle that Emil’s just purloined with a small thanks. “Don’t worry, Lukas, after their honeymoon period Densen’ll be crawling back to you, tail between his legs. God knows if he’ll find a diamond and hang it around your filthy neck.”

“You know how to flatter someone, huh?” Lukas smirks ever so slightly, but grabs the water bottle from Arthur’s fist. “Emi, why don’t you go socialize a little? You’re not as world weary as the rest of us fresh twenties.”

“Sixteen isn’t that much of a stretch,” Emil protests, but waves a little goodbye to them as he approaches _Ivan_ of all people. The two of them watch tensely as they establish their first contact, but as soon as Ivan pats the space next to him and Emil helps himself, the two of them relax.

“Really, Arthur, I’m worried,” Lukas says under his breath, cupping his mouth partially with his hands. “We were doing so well…and he seemed to take Emil as his own son, of sorts…and the things that he told Tino…that fool…!”

"He loves you, I’m sure of it,” Arthur says, but his thick eyebrows furrow again at the sight of Densen and Jones sitting so close together. “I don’t trust that Jones, not one jot. Comes strolling in, reeking of power, then steals your boyfriend while he has his own. I don’t trust that sort of man. Watch him befriend all of us then watch him become the whole leader of the group.”

 “Just curious, why don’t you just call him Alfred?” Lukas asks, watching the pair along with Arthur (again). “Is there a problem with that name?”  
  
“No,” Arthur echoes, watching Alfred and Matthias huddle closer together, and the way that Lukas’ hand clenches his tighter does nothing for his distaste. “Just don’t want to get too close and personal with a bastard I know I’ll only grow to hate.”

* * *

They polish off the rest of the venison Berwald had scavenged that night.

Much to Lukas’ dismay, Matthias has abandoned his place next to him and is now sitting with Alfred at the table, both of their voices loud and animated as they talk over the broth and crackers that the second group brought. Arthur chews on a beef jerky and tries his best to comfort Lukas’ tense shoulders as the dinner slowly draws to a close.

Funnily enough, Arthur can see the smallest inklings of friendship between Berwald and Yao, of all people. Berwald is tidying up the rest of the cutlery when Yao swoops in and starts collecting the rest, giving him a wan smile as they exchange a few words. Berwald perks up somewhat and nods, and the two of them walk away back into the kitchen, this time with an extra forty percent of soup cans. Tino wears a tense expression as he goes into his room, and only shares a word with Emil before he goes into the shower.

Right, the new sleeping arrangements. It quickly becomes clear that Tino will not give up his bedroom, and Lukas’ face is stony as Matthias says that their room has space for another person, holding Emil closer by his shoulders as if he could fight for a spot. But that little family spat is solved almost instantaneously as Matthias spots Emil and quickly invites him, and Arthur can catch Lukas’ guarded but happy expression as their disagreement is put to rest.

 “Hey Arthur, what about you? Since we have five new people, I don’t think you can keep your room to yourself since we’re gonna have six more in a few days,” Matthias begins, but Arthur shuts down that needless debate before it happens.

 “No, I understand, Densen,” Arthur says, keeping his voice curt. “I’ll take the blue couch for tonight – well, for now. Yao and Ivan can have my room, and Francis and Matthew can share one of the spare rooms. I suppose Jones can sleep in Berwald and Tino’s room?”

 “Nah, I don’t want to interrupt them,” Alfred says, and Arthur sharply turns away to avoid his intrusive gaze. “I’ll take the green couch. Might want to keep an eye out for the other group, anyway.”

“Then it’s settled!” Matthias beams, and then starts explaining their rules for the bathroom and the food pantry, as well as shifts. It’s all drivel that Arthur’s heard before, and he all but tunes out until the meeting’s over, where he just grabs his threadbare towel and makes a beeline for the bathroom.

* * *

“Why didn’t you take Tino and Berwald’s bedroom?”

The question sprouts itself from Arthur’s lips as soon as he comes back into the room – he’d washed his hair, and beads of water bounce off it as soon as he sits, cross legged on the sofa. It feels more like drying sponge covered with thinning cotton than a sofa, but he refuses to show weakness to Jones.

“Huh? Oh, it’s you, Arthur.” The tone seems to imply something else other than courtesy, and Arthur bristles, but Jones plows on. “It’s kinda obvious, with the thing you told me before as well that Tino doesn’t like us. Well. The _idea_ of us. Also, he and Berwald are a thing, so I didn’t want to interfere, so I left it be. Also, I loved the couch in our old safe house.” 

“Break up your sentences, please,” Arthur sighed, barely able to follow the run on ideas that clouded his mind. “I didn’t know you’d be so observant, seeing the way you've been eyeing Matthias.”

“What? Are you jealous, _princess_?” Alfred teases, and Arthur huffs angrily. What an arsehole. Probably just good enough for his looks; they manage to blind someone to the point where they forget that he has literally no brain. 

“Of course not, you dolt,” he snipes back, and by the minuscule movement of Alfred’s eyebrows – fucking perfect, those things are, Arthur bitches – he’s taken him by surprise. “My best friend, Lukas.”

“…Oh, that kid with the little cross in his hair,” Alfred says, spreading his arms over the couch like he owns the thing. “Are he and Matthias a thing?”

“There’s a reason that people are sharing rooms, and they’re not just heterosexual life partners,” Arthur says dryly. “Yes, obviously. Lukas is feeling a little…displaced.”

“Uh, actually,” Alfred interjects, and Arthur pursues his lips at the way he brushes off the remark about Lukas. “Francis and Matt aren’t into each other.”

“Wouldn’t have guessed, by the way Francis tries to grope anything that moves other than that Matthew,” Arthur retorts, folding his arms. “So what? Basically, what I’m asking is that you either back off or explain yourself.”

“Chill out, princess,” Alfred snarks, adjusting his jaw with those stupidly well defined cheekbones and _Goddamnit Arthur, you’re supposed to be glaring him down._ “Hey. I’m not a cheater. Okay, I’ll explain myself in the morning to your distraught friend. Got it?”

“Very well,” Arthur says, his tone still clipped – but cautious manners return as he realises there is one more question to ask. “Where were you before all this happened?"

“Literal rocket science, aeronautic engineering. I’m – well, was – an Ivy League kid.” comes the reply, and Arthur winces again. This buffoon was supposed to be stupid. He was supposed to be an _idiot_. “That was fun and all. Matt came down to Germany for his exchange year, he was doing social studies as a minor. Keeps on preaching that ‘strength in numbers’ jazz. You?” 

“You mean ‘strength in group arguments that ultimately lead to senseless death’, but I did English Literature in Brown,” Arthur replies, but _yet_ another question springs to mind. Weren’t they supposed to be arguing? “Why exactly is Matthew so concerned about the other team?”  
  
“Huh? Oh, yeah, uh, his injured boyfriend’s in that team,” Alfred says, and with a pang Arthur realises Alfred is proper _staring,_ blue eyes boring into pale skin. “Gil. Kind of the reason he did an exchange in Germany. They had to perform an amputation the other day since a wound he got started showing since of infection. Don’t worry, it’s not a zombie bite, just a patch of skin that got snagged and never really got better. He’s left handed, as well.”

“Fascinating,” Arthur echoes. “What about your…boyfriend?”

“Hm? Oh, uh, Ludwig,” Alfred says, and Arthur deflates just a little. He fucking hated his emotions. “He’s burly as all hell and I know he can beat up a crowd of zombies and ask for beer afterwards. He’s sturdy like that.”

“Ah, a studly type,” Arthur says airily, smiling a little in spite of himself. “Is he from Germany?”  
  
“Yeah,” Alfred says, and Arthur winces a little – the answer is too curt for someone who appears to be madly in love. A hopeful beat of his heart presses through his system, but he shuts it out in favour of worrying for Lukas. “Almost blew my eardrums off with his shouting in that alley when I asked about his bike, but by next week we were going to class together. How quickly do things change, huh?”

“I’d hazard a guess, Jones, and I’d say quite quickly,” Arthur says, but he can tell that Jones can somehow sense that he is tired of this conversation. “Although, it is getting late and Matthias will want to organize a convoluted party for the new team. So I suggest we get to sleep now.”

“Whatever floats your boat, princess. Or expert pessimist.”

“Stop calling me either of those!”

“It’s fun, you know,” Alfred says, his voice leaning back with the rest of him. “Getting a rise out of you. You’re something else when you’re bitchy.”

“That’s a permanent state of mine, other than bored, sick of PDA, and exhausted,” Arthur remarks, turning on his side. Alfred is removing his red windbreaker to reveal a white tank top, dog tags that glitter against the dim light that the window gives, and formidable muscles that makes Arthur swallow. “Goodnight, Jones.”

The long, luxurious sound of Alfred exhaling makes Arthur’s eyes willow. 

“Goodnight, Arthur.”


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which group three arrives, and arthur hates everything and everybody, but especially matthias.
> 
> alfred and ludwig do the deed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! so i think i'm going to stick to the tuesday schedule of updating. works fine for me atm, so i hope it'll work out!

* * *

 june  
eight crosses on the calendar

* * *

Guess who decided to rock up to the party three days late.

No, it wasn’t Arthur’s common sense.

Funnily enough, this group comes during the wee hours of the morning, where Emil is perched on the patio on an ageing plastic beach chair and a shout at his disposal. Tino sleepily prepares Hana, Berwald paws at their weapons and Arthur weakly crumbles off his sofa like a drunkard unaware of their limits, but the second group are completely calm. Alfred even mutters a good morning to the rest of the team as they wait. They end up bringing a bag of buns and morosely passing them around the group as they converge on the patio.

A heavily accentuated Italian voice is the one to alert them to the group.

“Hello, hello!” he almost cries, odd curl to the right side of his hair bobbing unnaturally as he waves like a country girl would at a soldier’s march, sans white handkerchief. He's thanking  _Pride and Prejudice_ for that analogy. “What’s your favourite number?”

“Fifty, of course,” Alfred sings, and Arthur guesses that it might be their code of some sorts. “Come on up, Feli!”

The Italian yelps, and runs up the steps, slinging down his luggage before prancing into the safe house, Tino bristling. The other five members of his group are not as enthusiastic, and the now seventeen membered group file into the house in mostly silence.

They sit on the couch; most of Arthur’s original group barring Matthias and Tino settling on his sofa, whereas everyone but Alfred from his team crash onto his couch. The third group sit quietly on the floors, save an intimidating blond man and ‘Feli’.

Arthur wonders for a moment if the man is Ludwig.

“What took you so long, Lud?” Alfred asks, and Arthur’s suspicions are confirmed – but again, the lack of love and affection in his voice is startling. “I thought you and Feli would take the south road like we agreed.”

“There was a group starting to congregate there, and we did not know whether it was undead or not,” Ludwig answers gruffly, and yes, he can tell that it is the buff German from the accent alone – but again, why don’t they behave more like lovers? “So yes, even if we had to take a few more days, it was safer. We did sustain some injuries, though.”

“I’ll help out,” Matthew says, and three fourths of the group whip around to see him clutching his medical kit. “You said Kiku had another to spare?”

“Two, actually,” a young man with short black hair and almond shaped eyes affirms – Kiku – with a small nod. “We are still worrying about a possible infection on Gilbert’s side as we were moving quite fast. Please tend to him as soon as possible.”

“You didn’t have to ask,” Matthew says, and snatches up the kit and resumes his place next to a silvery haired man with his right hand ending in a stump. “Oh, Gilbert, what did I tell you about putting weight on this arm?”

“I got your messages, Birdie,” this Gilbert character says, and they seem absolutely oblivious to the rest of the group. “Sorry we couldn’t respond…I missed you so much, though…”

Matthew lets out an uncharacteristic laugh and flings his arms around the German’s neck, kissing him furiously to the surprise (and disgust) of the other group. Well, Arthur thinks to himself, I suppose Jones and Ludwig should take lessons from these two on how to exert extreme PDA as a couple…

“…Right,” Ludwig says, trying to continue their conversation, blushing a little and doing his level best to look away from the couple. “Um. I assume that Alfred and the others alerted us to your presence? How do we know we can trust you?”

“I’ve met Alfred and Gilbert before,” Matthias says, looking up calmly from his work, “But can I ask what you guys were thinking with your strategy? Just wondering why you knew we were a good rendezvous point.”

Arthur flinches at how out of character it is for Matthias, but Tino nods once in his direction and he quickly understands that it is from him, not from Matthias’ all too trusting heart.

“Well, suffice to say that it was our plan,” Ludwig says, but exchanges another glance with Alfred, eyes betraying his emotions. “We as a group have not been…coping well recently, and we were seeing that maybe it was a good idea to combine strengths with another team.”

“…OK then, welcome on!” Matthias says, enthusiasm rushing back into his voice, a move that has Tino slowly blinking on how quickly he changed when reverting back to his own thoughts. “We redrew rules a few days ago, but…”

Arthur tunes out and goes back to attempting to avoid the sickly sweet sounds of Matthew and Gilbert attempting to eat each other’s faces off.

* * *

 

“Alfred, a word?”

Arthur cracks open one green eye and drowsily rolls over. It’s the middle of the night, everyone’s apparently gone to bed, but Ludwig has other ideas. It can’t be Gilbert, his voice is a little faster and less deep compared to his elder? Younger brother? It doesn’t matter really.

“So now you want to talk to me?” Alfred’s voice is stony; stonier than even the first time he and Arthur talked. “Right. I’ll take this out on the patio.”

Footsteps permeate the room, and Arthur turns onto his stomach, propping his chin up with both hands to peer at the dimly lit porch, relying on the night to cloak him.

“So, we’re over, right?” comes Alfred’s voice. “You’re rooming with Feli.”

“The Matthias fellow said you were sleeping on the couch,” Ludwig says, his tone mild and his hand movements placating, but Alfred’s voice is cold.

“You could have specified that the group was going a little sourer because of your thing with Feli,” Alfred presses on. “It’s no secret. And after almost a week, you two have decided to continue it, huh?”

“Alfred.” Ludwig’s voice is now matching his partner’s, the silhouette of his open hands curling into fists. “I’m sorry. But we only dated for eight months, and it was online. I have known Feli…since my childhood. You know that our relationship was not working out, anyway. I would rather part on amicable terms, and be amicable friends, instead of destroying the fabric of our group. I respected you as a lover, but now I respect you as a leader only.”

“Christ, I really loved you, you know?” Alfred said, and Arthur can hear the heave in his breath, his large hands sorting through his hair. “Really, I did. The first time we FaceTimed, when I went back to America…I was over the moon. Matt and I were coming over to visit you and Gil, and that first night we had together was one of the best nights of my whole life. I just can’t believe it’s gonna end like this. In a fucked up zombie apocalypse.”

“We’ll still love each other, but in a different way,” Ludwig says, and the gentleness in his tone is enough to convince Arthur that yes, at some point they did truly care for another. “But we have to move on, especially in a world like this one. For the good of ourselves and the people we now work with.”

“Always the team player,” Alfred says, and laughs huskily. “Sorry I got mad, Lud. I just thought…I told the group that I had a boyfriend, and I feel stupid about it, with the way we left it before we separated. But at least it wasn’t a break up Whatsapp text.”

“That’s right, Al. But please, don’t be angry at Feli,” Ludwig says, but Alfred is quick to reassure.

“If I was, I wouldn’t have greeted him the way we did,” Alfred says wanly, and he looks away for a moment. “You two deserve each other. I’m happy for the two of you.”

“I am…relieved with the way it ended,” Ludwig says, his head tilting downwards, the two of them avoiding eye contact for a moment. “Maybe, in the future, we can still become friends. But I will always be there for you.”

“We still are, and I’ll always have your back,” Alfred reassures, and Arthur listens to the sound of skin on skin, and hears the soft motions of their lips fastening together for the last time, long and tender. “Goodnight, Lud.”

“Goodnight, Al,” comes the response, and Arthur turns onto his back and drifts off again, not quite sure what to do with this immediate shift.

* * *

june  
nine crosses on the calendar

* * *

 

The next few days are not spent preparing a raid like Matthias was so very excited for, but instead socializing.

Let the camera cut to Arthur bolting away into a pack of the undead sobbing the lyrics to Greensleeves, please.

In spite of all the headaches that ‘Feliciano’ (what a mouthful) now seems to inspire, Arthur has found solace in a new friend – cue the laughing track. Christ, this zombie apocalypse was some pathetically glorified sitcom at this point.

Kiku Honda – or本田菊, as he started to refer to himself before almost everyone save Yao scratched their white heads and complained, was on his exchange year when the apocalypse broke out. He had been a hikikomori, or something he had written in Japanese, something scrubbed out when everyone complained, but had been coaxed (read forced, thanks) by his parents to rejoin the breadths of society by attending school. After buttoning up his jacket and getting to work in the technology field, everything had gone to waste and he stuck to Heracles’ side, his best friend and eventual partner.

Ludwig Beilschmidt – or however you pronounce it – was as much of a no nonsense guy as his conversation with Alfred seemed to prove. Instead of being the actual leader of the group that Arthur had thought he might have been, he was instead a deputy of sorts, the second person the members of the eleven newcomers turned to. Oh, and he also loved Feli but never wanted to show too much affection in public, which was an excellent arrangement in Arthur’s opinion.

Feliciano Vargas(s) probably had sunshine in his veins instead of blood. He smiled widely and was very fond of almost everything in their new outhouse. During team briefings and daily maintenance he hummed little melodies to himself when cleaning his little daggers and sorting empty vials. Even though he mainly liked to heal on the wasteland, he still insisted that he learned to fight. Arthur quickly learned that the one subject he would complain about was being forced to live on grains and soup cans. Some gourmet he was...but save the chirpiness Arthur probably found that to be his worst quality.

Speaking of worst qualities, Arthur thought Gilbert Beilschmidt was just a bad quality rolled into a German albino with the most shit eating grin he'd ever see in his life. Even if he was left-handed and he had just lost his right hand, he seemed pretty determined to sap the group of all their resources with a lazy smirk and no work in exchange. Granted, Arthur wouldn't speak out against him because he actually liked Matthew, (shocker) but that boy was too soft on him for his own good. Gilbert kept on insisting that he was best used on the battlefield, but with the sigh his younger - younger!? - brother gave him with every exclamation, Arthur preferred to watch his own back, thanks. Hell, he’d rather trust Feliciano.

Funnily enough, Arthur had tried to talk to Feliciano the other day. Unfortunately, while lollygagging near their kitchen - um, collection of soup cans - he had been met with his twin. Lovino motherfucking Vargas(s). Probably had a stick up his ass and had the unfortunate delicacy of being the odd one out of the third group. Not that many people wanted to speak to him anyway; even Ludwig seemed scared as hell of him, and that alone was a formidable feat. However, something about the way he seemed constantly in a pissy mood amused Arthur. Well, if they had to stick together, he had to at least try to find something redeemable in his character. Cue the Lovino Vargas(s) redemption arc, Season Two.

Heracles Karpusi was certainly an odd character. His first move in his self-introduction was to explain that his surname meant watermelon in Greek. Taking the awkward silence in stead, he explained that his role in the team was a scout of some sorts, having the stamina and eyes to find something and report back. The downside to this was his constant love of naps. Arthur had found him curled in the now defunct fridge, mumbling Kiku’s name and giving him a heart attack that he unfortunately seemed to be all right with.

Next time a new group rocked up to their doorsteps, Arthur was taking Tino’s side.

* * *

june  
eleven crosses on the calendar

* * *

 

Arthur sits back on his dogged couch, wearing a wan expression as they bicker again about arrangements. Seems like Lukas and Emil want to go ahead for the raid, but Berwald's insisting that Emil not go, citing his pulled leg. Fair enough to Arthur, but with the added burden of eleven new members there's surely new blood to go around, but Tino thinks otherwise.

“How do you know they won’t stab us in the back?” the Finnish man says, his arms folded. "We've spent quite a bit of time with Group Two, and that’s all very well, but Group Three's been here five days, max."

“You can trust us!” Feliciano chirps, eyes radiant, but Ludwig shakes his head quickly, his lips pursued.

“We understand your wariness of us, Tino, but we would like to ask – what could we do to earn your trust?” The reluctance in his voice suggests that Ludwig knows he is treading on thin ice.

“More team building exercises?” Matthias suggests unhelpfully, and the icy gaze delivered by the sniper says it all. “Well. I say if you really want to trust someone, go into battle with him or her. So why not?”

“Don’t want them dashing off with our stuff,” Tino says, but seems to relent just a little. “Well. As long as we can have someone trustworthy with a group each, I suppose it wouldn’t be too much harm.”

“All r’ght,” Berwald says after yet another silence, pressing his hands together. What a family man. “Two groups, th’n?”

Feliciano seems terribly intimidated about his voice like the first time he and Lukas met Berwald, and nods mutely, clinging onto Lovino’s shoulders.   
Berwald seems bewildered at this, and exchanges a perplexed look with Tino who stands a little closer to him.

“...you trust the groups, Matthias,” Tino says, stance relaxing as he mouths the words quietly, but just enough to be heard by the eleven others. “I trust you to sort the groups for tomorrow’s raid. I’ll come along, if you will have me.”

“Of course, buddy!” Matthias beams, and pats him on the back, squeezing his shoulders, the sound resounding. Huh, Tino was coming along. Maybe he wanted to repair his reputation somewhat?

But he has Oxenstierna wrapped around his Finnish finger, already.

“All right, we’ll split up into teams of six. Five will stay here, all right?”

Arthur internally pleads for him to be in a scouting group and for Jones to stay home. Permanently. Leave him here while they jog off to another safe house.

Fucking Densen must be a mind reader, though, as the moment the thought siphons away like a cloud after a rainy day, he announces the first group.

“All right, so for the first group we’ll have Lukas and Arthur, Lovino and Ivan, er,”

Not Jones, please, Arthur thinks, scrunching up his fists and slotting them into his pockets.

“Alfred!” Matthias declares, and Arthur wants to die. Christ, if it wasn’t rude to die in the middle of a meeting his body would be hitting the floor of their safe house in that instant.

“Okay, so that’s the first group.” Not okay. Densen, I swear- “The second group’s gonna be Yao, Berwald, Tino, Francis, and me! The third group’s everyone else. Everyone cool with that?”

No, Arthur wails internally, but raises his eyebrows a little at the fact that Matthias hasn’t elected to bring Ludwig. Maybe he was a little intimidated by the German man all the same…?

Also, at least he wasn’t in the same group with the Frenchman. Frog probably would die groping a burlap sack filled with rotting apples or something. Arthur hoped that when it did, someone would record the footage.

Whatever. He was going to be raiding with Jones and he couldn’t worm his way out even if he tried.

And as he went to bed that night after his futile attempt, he buried his face in his pillow, hoping that his frustrated screams would wake his stupid roommate from his slumber.

…it was just a day trip, right?


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which they go on a raid, alfred confronts his attraction and arthur really, really, needs a drink.

* * *

june

sixteen crosses on the calendar 

* * *

 Thank God it’s just a normal day trip, or more likely than not Densen would have lost his nose.

A squall of hot, harsh wind had arrived the night before the raid, so they’ve spent five days rotting inside their safe house. It’s no surprise Arthur is more than ready to move on.

Arthur refastens his satchel with his slender fingers, tracing over the worn button before putting it squarely on the landing, the harsh sound of grating soup cans bringing a wince to his lips as he abandons the blue bag in favour of his sponge – no, his couch. It’s early in the morning, and Tino has just retreated in his and Berwald’s bedroom after crossing off the early day on the calendar. Emil usually takes over when he’s away. He’s probably salty after being left back on the expedition anyway, so Arthur’s not going to push his luck.

The feeble morning light does nothing for Arthur’s vision as he paws around on the table, mind bogged down with sleep as he squints, tracing out the imprint of the line that they’re going to follow in the next few days. Yes, it’s just to a neighbouring ghost town, but also now not only does Arthur have to watch his back for zombies but he also has to watch his back for Jones. At least Lukas is coming along…

 He doesn’t know if he can trust Lovino. Ivan has at least been friendly enough with Emil for Arthur to be able to not hate him, and Jones he’d rather grab by those stupidly broad shoulders and shout in his face if he steps an atom out of line. Well, they might draw a few zombies in but whatever. 

 _What if my arrows aren’t enough this time?_ Arthur thinks, reclining his freshly washed hair onto the arm of the couch. He had packed ammo just in case and one of Emil’s handguns, but what if. That ridiculous question built on his mind; Arthur had always thought that he’d be ready to die. Crouching in the bathroom of the drive through, looking down at his clasped together hands and nothing but his own breathing permeating his ears, Arthur was ready. 

But Lukas had grasped his arm. Berwald and Tino had knocked on their door with relieved expressions, and Matthias had swung his arms around Lukas’ neck and started sobbing. That would happen later with Emil. Fine, Arthur hadn’t been so hot on the idea of a group then, but look where that’s landed him. Maybe he should stop fighting so vehemently by himself and actually take a good look at his teammates…

He looked with one green eye at Jones’ sleeping form. _Okay, good look at him over. Back to the dumpster you go. Begone, thot. Thotimus Prime._

Arthur snorts at that, burying the noise in between his arms to try to not wake up his roommate. Thanks to the earth though, who seemed to have a personal vendetta against him, Jones begins to stir. Fuck. He was now Caleb in _Ex Machina,_ save an Ava.

Actually, dying in a fancy house with heaps of alcohol didn’t sound that bad as an afterthought.

“ _Nnnh,_ ” Jones groans, and Arthur feels goosebumps salaciously bloom at the back of his neck as soon as he hears Alfred’s deep breaths puncture the air. He allows himself to fantasize that hot breath against his skin, coupled by scorching words at his throat with warm fingers skating down his sides, and blue eyes searing with an unparalleled hunger…

 _Arthur James Kirkland, the only thing he did was groan. What the fuck? Put your libido back in check, for the love of Jesus Christ and the heavens above._

_Seriously though,_ Arthur thinks to himself as Jones stretches, that wonderfully muscled back rippling as he yawns again, hands sorting through wheat hair that never seems to be able to be distressed. The way it falls in his face like some fringe gives him a boyish charm, and his dozy eyes betrays a softness that makes Arthur’s heart pause for a moment. _Some gorgeous prick he is._

Then Alfred gets up from his couch, straightening out his white shirt, and Arthur dives his face back into his arms, determined to not look because he’s so goddamn thirsty for that chiselled jawline and abs and stupid sexy scowl that he both want to kiss off his face or punch it off.

Suck it, English professor; he _knows_ how to use alliteration.

* * *

 Arthur had hoped, at least, that the day would be boring.

Lukas has the rendezvous point set up in the abandoned laundromat, where abandoned baskets and powders are strewn all over the place. He sets out a plan – every hour until five, each of them will check in and switch out so that the person supervising their goods will go back outside to scavenge. It’s a large town and the team are lucky enough that the town’s zombies have mostly moved on, but that’s not to say that there aren’t.

 Plenty of pickings, plenty of things to go wrong. 

“Put on those jackets, please,” Lukas says morosely, arms crossed over his legs as he finds a seat on one of the old benches in the laundromat. “Yes, before you snark me, Arthur, I know it’s the middle of summer.”

“You forgot to mention that we’re European and we can’t afford a sun tan nor tan lines right now, Bond,” Arthur quips back, but wears a smirk on his face as he threads his fingers through the cut out sleeves. “Anyway. It’s just a day trip so we should be back around twelve, one am. Grab what we need.”

“What are we looking for, chief?” Alfred says, adjusting his glasses. Arthur hunts for sarcasm in his voice, but it doesn’t arrive.

“Food, mostly,” Arthur says, fighting to keep his tone carefully neutral. “Medicine, but the area of town we’re going into doesn’t have a lot of houses, and Lukas usually finds them-”

“Usually raid a bathroom or two,” Lukas catches on, “Don’t know if anyone could use Botox, but if there’s something useful bag it anyway.” 

“We’re looking out for zombies along the way, right?” Lovino says, his accent rounding out his words. “Permission to shoot them dead on sight.”

“I’m not your leader, Jones is,” Arthur says, raising his thick eyebrows a little, but he nods. “Of course. I think we each bought some spare ammo so you can switch out when needed.”

“Should we pair up?” Ivan asks, his tone plaintive as he scrapes the heel of his shoes on the tiles. “Well. We used to do that in old group.” 

“…it’s a good idea, yes,” Arthur says, pausing a little to internally berate himself for not coming up with that idea. “So, we’ll-”

 “Hm, Matthias said something about getting to know one another, right?” Lukas says, and the smoothness of his tone makes Arthur break out into hives. _Lukas Bondevik, for the love of God remember the one time I dragged my ass out at four am to literally buy you a stick of butter. The cashier was piss drunk and tried to throw a pack of Smarties at me. You better not-_

“So, Ivan, would you be all right taking first watch?” Lukas says, his sickly sweet smile plastered onto his face like some ghastly, ageing wall paint. “I’ll pair off with Lovino, and Alfred can go with Arthur. Set your stopwatches, please!”

Then he has the _gall_ to whip around and shoot Arthur a winning smile, getting up and patting him on the shoulder, whispering a ‘thank me later’ before sauntering out of the laundromat, Lovino tightening the straps on his backpack as he followed him.

“Bondevik, you son of a…” Arthur muttered under his breath, but Alfred was already up, exchanging a glance with him before nodding once to Ivan. “Give me a moment, Jones.”

“Too old to stay on your feet?” Alfred teases, folding his arms and leaning up against one of the abandoned washing machines. “I bet you couldn’t keep up with a conversation either.”

“You would like it,” Arthur growls underneath his breath, and faces Alfred defiantly, never one to back down from a challenge where he has some odds. There’s a height difference that Arthur does his best to make negligible as he leans up on his toes, and he pushes his face forward, eliminating any semblance of space between them as green eyes meet blue in a single heated movement. “Wouldn’t you like it better, _Jones_ , if we didn’t share a single word between us?”

“What if I would?” Alfred replies huskily, his blue eyes molten behind his frames. He exhales once, meeting Arthur’s gaze. “Silence makes a good man convert, Arthur. Our words end up dissolving into storms. Which would you rather have?” 

“What if I preferred the storm?” Arthur rebuts, and Alfred watches the sparks in his gaze, threatening to set him alight if they ran their fingers down his skin. “Only those who have prepared their bodies will survive, not those who recite poetry. Words breathe less than actions.”

Alfred’s mouth parts to deliver a fierce retort, but he pauses for a moment, side tracked on Arthur’s smooth lips. They move as if every word, every breath is their last, and the colour reminds him of the sweetest peaches he stole from his neighbour’s tree when he was a child - soft and plump to the touch. Would they feel the same pressed tightly against his own? 

“Um, people,” comes a timid voice from the background, and Alfred and Arthur whip around from their close contact, where Ivan plaintively waves a large hand. “I thought you were supposed to be setting off…”

Alfred arranges his slightly mussed shirt and watches Arthur tuck his ashen blond hair behind his ear with delicate fingers, delicate fingers which probably would be cool against his tongue, against his skin. 

Arthur hopes the heated gaze boring into his back is not of his wildest fantasies as they leave the laundromat.

Behind them, Ivan notices that the room has significantly cooled, and rests his head on an old basket, exhausted by the amount of unresolved sexual tension within two bodies. 

He needs a drink.

* * *

The rest of the day is spent mostly in silence.

One of the first buildings Alfred and Arthur enter are is an abandoned tuck shop. There are bits of crumpled metal lying on the floor like silver wood shavings, and wooden sticks and plastic bags are still neatly hung underneath what seems to be a deep fryer. As they enter, Arthur sees that there is no name of the shop, only just a crude metal roof that barely covers it from the sun.

“Listen out for sounds that aren’t our own,” Alfred mutters under his breath, and Arthur nods once – the stacks of Jammy Dodgers occupy him as he moves a little closer to the back of the shop. Being English, he would be a national embarrassment if he couldn’t recognize the distinctive red packaging.

Abandoned pictures cotton onto the wall, pictures of smiling students clutching white paper cups and brown bags, and newspaper clippings advertising the store with the name long smudged out. A small map of the area, the shop circled in blue pen, is also tacked on top of a contact list with numbers neatly printed on a paper that’s now useless; but the map still has some use so Arthur snatches it and tucks it within the breastpocket of his jacket.

The room emits an eerie feel, sucked of life like how almost everything else feels like after the apocalypse started, and Arthur’s ears are sensitive to the sounds of his long breaths and Alfred’s shoes on the dusty floor. The small heave of his sheath every time he looks up reminds him constantly that if anything happened, he was still armed. Albeit with a set of bow and arrows and a gun he was only so so with.

He laughs a little to himself. The whole situation is ridiculous. Only a few months ago, he would have been a patron of this tuck shop, maybe grabbing something to sober himself up after a day of drinking with Lukas and Vlad. Maybe a box of dumplings to keep him alive after finishing his latest thesis. Now he’s trekking in the American heat, bow and arrow and gun, and green eyes searching for something extra to sustain life, mind on anything but said thesis.

“Anything good there, Arthur?” Alfred says, his voice jerking himself back to reality. Arthur whips around, only to realize that Alfred is terribly close, so close that he can catch a hint of Alfred’s smell.

Christ, he smells like apples.

“Oh, er, I found some biscuits,” Arthur says quickly, inching a little closer to the package and quickly taking three at the same time, desperately hoping the colour of his cheeks doesn’t match the red. “Seem to be in good condition despite all the heat.”

“Jammy…Dodgers, huh,” Alfred says, eyeing the package. “Weird to see them so far from England. Don’t we have a thing for Brits here?”  
  
“I wouldn’t know, American,” Arthur says, but quickly avoids his eyes and hates how he stutters a little. Is Alfred motherfucking _flirting_ with him? They were supposed to be enemies! They were glaring each other down at the laundromat! Why is he trying to-

“Say that to me with a straight face, Arthur,” Alfred says evenly, and Arthur reluctantly drags his eyes towards his expression – his cheeks are dazzlingly flushed, and his neck is pink, but he is looking straight into Arthur’s eyes. “And they call me oblivious?”  
  
“I don’t understand...” Arthur stutters, retreating a little, the packs shaking in his arms as he steps back, foot pressing into the wall.

“Don’t you remember what just happened at the laundromat?” Alfred says, his voice low as he leans in, hand pressing against the wall with a small sound as he arches over Arthur. “I’ve never even had that sort of conversation. Not with Ludwig, not with anyone.”

Arthur’s eyes desperately search his, trying to gauge any semblance of what he’s trying to say – but the words blur into something that he blames his agonizing attraction to. Ludwig – ex, laundromat – hell, they had backed each other into a corner like they had, American – his nationality, oblivious - _??????_

The only thing that comes out of his mouth is ‘…ermph, Ludwig?’

“Wha…?” Alfred stutters, taken aback, but then uses his free hand to slap his forehead, groaning a little. “Fuck, I completely forgot. Uh, uh, that is to say…”

Arthur internally begs him to say something more, to moisten his lips and eliminate what little distance there is between them and _Arthur it has literally been TWO WEEKS._

 But if you were so close to Alfred Jones, would you be able to resist?

The strange moment’s over, though, and Alfred steadies himself again to Arthur’s internal disappointment. Why didn’t he go a step further, cupping Arthur’s chin in his hands – Arthur would dreamily imagine that they’re calloused from hard, hard work – and kiss him for the first time? Arthur would rest his hands on that defined chest and _ARTHUR JAMES KIRKLAND, TONE DOWN YOUR THIRST._

“S-Sorry for that,” Alfred says after a long pause, watching silently as Arthur helps himself to the packs of the Jammy Dodgers. His own rucksack contains a few wrapped packets of instant noodles, and a string of plastic cups topped with utensils. Not bad pickings. “I just…”

“No, it’s…it’s all right,” Arthur replies, an uncomfortable prickling rising on the back of his neck. His hands linger on the zipper of his backpack, the hollow feeling of the tuck shop dissolving into bitter disappointment. “Um. Do you think we’re done here?”

“Yeah.” Alfred says, and his voice is morose as he slouches a little, grabbing his rucksack and moving the heavy object like he was splashing in water, making Arthur’s mouth dry just a little more. “Should we get going, then?”

Arthur wordlessly follows him, defeat flooding his system at Alfred’s confusing words. What had he meant to say…?

* * *

 

Sometimes Arthur wishes he didn’t saddle himself with archery classes when he went off to summer camp (an excuse for his parents to sigh a breath of relief when his delinquent arse decided he was bored and committed the horrifying felony of returning to class three minutes late after nipping down to the chip shop).

He notches the arrow securely and aims, a mantra ringing in his head, blocking out the overbearing warmth of the brick wall scorched by summer. Even though the harsh light of the sun has died on their way back, it doesn’t seem to faze this flock. Really, once the sun goes down, it's a free for all.

Lukas sits tensely, three footsteps away from him. He’s arranging glass jars of laundry detergent – really, _laundry detergent_? It wasn’t like they could cleanse this group away from them – but it’s a small threat, and they’ll probably pass without any issue. As soon as he sorts the jars into his backpack, he lets himself breathe again.

Arthur can’t spot Alfred. Or Lovino. They had paired up shortly after he and Alfred had checked in for the hour, and Arthur literally had a whole hour to think about what Alfred had tried to say to him, and to daydream about his Adonis like body, what his roughened lips would feel against the shell of the ear, and _Arthur you are literally steps from dying, please wait until you’re home, thanks._

He releases his taut grip on the string as soon as Lukas mouths ‘go’. Slinging on his backpack, he gets ready to run past and is a good two metres away before he looks at his side. Lukas isn’t here. He limps a metre behind him, foot awkwardly trailing behind him – he’s hurt.

In the middle of his paranoia, Arthur forgets himself and shouts his best friend’s name. He doesn’t remember that the five of them have scattered somewhat, he doesn’t remember he’s in a middle of a zombie apocalypse, he just remembers that he owes Lukas his life and then some.

All hell breaks loose. 

The passing herd – they’re not that many, fifteen or sixteen from what Arthur can gauge – starts to divert their attention away from the west of the town and start to lumber immediately towards Arthur and Lukas. By the look on his ashen face, Lukas panics.

“Run!” Lukas cries, probably attempting to draw all the attention to him, so that he can run, but Arthur has already dismissed that idea in his mind as one hand reaches from his shoulder and another for his gun. He scoops Lukas’ arm and does his best to drag him, but even with their best-combined efforts it will be only a matter of time before they’re overwhelmed.

Arthur looks around, panicked, at the landscape. Their teammates are nowhere to be seen.

So Tino was right.

He tunes out Lukas’ protests and cries of pain, and tries to ignore his muscles screaming for relief. He has just about accepted his death all over again when shouts erupt from behind them. Arthur daren’t look away, but when the familiar dying groans of the undead sear his ears, he lets his heartbeat slow a little more, and the blood doesn’t pound in his ears any more.

“Arthur!” a voice cries – Alfred - and then two arms bundle Lukas from behind him – Ivan and Lovino. Lukas is almost as dazed as he is, rucksack slipping from his shoulders and leg dragging sullenly in the dirt, but relief pours through his veins as Ivan slings Lukas’ backpack onto his shoulders and they continue moving in their same crazed way. Arthur attempts to pick up the pace, but not before he’s met with Alfred’s smoldering gaze.

“Arthur, what the _hell_!?” he shouts, but Arthur is wordless in his exhaustion and tries to keep up. But that is shut down almost as quickly as he pulls another exhausted breath from his lips and Alfred’s arms scoop underneath his legs, and suddenly they’re running, Arthur’s heart and his sheath pounding on his chest almost at the same tempo. 

“I couldn’t leave him!” Arthur shouts, trying to position his gun, but Alfred shakes his head and Arthur quiets. He’s not good enough with the piece of metal to know he won’t accidentally shoot him.

“Not like _that_ ,” Alfred bites out, but the two of them are too physically and mentally exhausted for arguments and they hare off into the distance, hoping that the zombie herd doesn’t track them before they can get to the group.

* * *

Matthias is beside himself as soon as Lukas staggers onto the patio and into his arms, which he tries to brush off.

Tino merely positions Hana on the banister and starts shooting off the rest of the herd like they’re targets at a booth at a carnival. The herd is small enough and slow enough that Tino dispatches them within an hour. Group Two and Three are utterly perplexed, but Berwald coaxes them back inside with a can of soup and a reassuring word, ever the devil’s advocate.

Arthur unloads the packs of biscuits, and as soon as he sees to Lukas’ ankle he jumps into the shower without another word.

It’s only later that night that Alfred and Arthur have time to themselves. Everyone’s gone to bed early that night after showering up, especially an exhausted Lukas and a distressed Matthias, and so Arthur volunteers to sort out the pickings for their scavenging team. It’s a decent crop, and Arthur’s just finished sorting the last of the foods when Alfred finds him in their shared room.

“What in God’s name were you thinking, Arthur?” Alfred repeats but with more intensity, all but shouting in his face. He pins Arthur to the kitchen wall, eyes searing with a blue fire that mirrored the one in the tuck shop. “You and Lukas could have both died!”

“Well, what did you expect me to do? Wait around for you to play _bleeding_ hero like some damsel in distress?” Arthur shouts back, his arms folded. “I couldn’t wait until then!”

 “As if I’d ever think of you a damsel,” Alfred snaps, hitting the wall again with such force that the whole sound ripples through the safe house. “Why can’t you let someone help you for once?”

 “Like you actually _care_ about me!” Arthur retorts, letting the laundromat and the tuck shop fade from his mind. “Just…Christ, leave me alone! You’re probably doing this for Matthias’ sake, anyway.”  
  
Alfred grits his teeth, and looks Arthur in the eyes. Even though his expression is passionate behind his glasses, something about it calms him down and his mouth falters, fiery retort dying behind his lips. The two of them observe each other for a strange moment, eyes roaming over freckles and eyelashes and parted lips before Alfred breaks the tense silence.

“What happened back there should have told you that he’s not the only person I give a damn about. Fuck you," Alfred says breathily, pulling Arthur's face towards his as he mashes their lips together, the two of them retreating to the living room table. Arthur's fingernails dig into the back of the table as they kiss frantically, as if Arthur is a starving man and Alfred autumn's bounty.

Arthur’s desperate hands tightly grasp Alfred’s golden hair, and Alfred’s hands cup Arthur’s waist in the sensual way that the two of them have always wanted. Arthur parts his mouth and lets Alfred devour him only for that moment.

And then that moment’s gone, as they part, gasping for breath. Arthur’s eyes, laced with jade, daren’t look back at the other boy as the weakest rays of the sun grace their living room and they go back to their couches, the heat of their embrace still lingering on their skin.

 


	5. v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which arthur gets to know someone new, someone newer, and alfred is confronted with love advice.

* * *

june

eighteen crosses on the calendar

* * *

Matthew’s stirring around a can of applesauce, one leg on the stool, one hanging off it like a vine. The sound of metal upon metal grates against Arthur’s ears as soon as he enters the (soup room) kitchen and gives Matthew a tentative wave.

The safe house is a little quieter today. A lot of people have decided to continue recuperating from the trip – especially Lukas, who Matthias has insisted on full and complete bed rest and went with Emil to get him breakfast in bed. Jones and half of Group Three have gone along with Berwald to get a better feel for the surrounding terrain, as there’s still plenty of scavenging to be done in their town. It’s likely they’ll remain here until before or after Christmas, and Arthur gets a feeling that all seventeen of them appreciate the stability.

“Good morning…Matthew,” he says, feeling a little self conscious as his mind short circuits for a moment, thinking that he’s walked into Alfred – no, _Jones_. “Is Gilbert feeling a little better?”

“Hm? Oh, good morning, Arthur,” Matthew says, and he puts down the can with an eerily formal manner, careful to ensure that the spoon doesn’t tip over. “He doesn’t really need taking care of at this point. I’ve done a bit of work with Lukas with sorting out the medicine, and I think the raid we did two days ago should be enough.”

“That’s a relief, with all the heat I doubt that none of us will get any sunburns,” Arthur says lightly, shoulders relaxing a little as Matthew chuckles. “Especially your albino.”

“He tells me it helps during the winter months,” Matthew replies, giving the pot of applesauce another stir before lifting the spoon out and offering it to Arthur. “A man can’t finish a pot in these times. Share?”

“How could I resist?” Arthur says, and plops himself onto the chair. They pass the spoon around – both don’t want to add more burden to Heracles, who does most of the washing up – and the sweetness of the sauce reminds Arthur of infancy as he tries not to chew on the bits of apple skin that’s still in the mixture. “Well. It’s quite sweet." 

“I thought that we might smear it onto some bread like some jam,” Matthew says, his voice soft as he retakes the can and has a bite, savouring the taste and engulfing the spoon whole – hopefully, minus tongue. Arthur doesn’t complain; he suspects that the Canadian actually brushes his teeth. “It brings some flavour so that Feli doesn’t become upset.”

“But he can’t stand canned foods,” Arthur sighs, watching him savour the meal. “Although, he doesn’t seem to mind baked things as much. Maybe we could start cooking before wintertime.”

“Maybe. If we last this long, of course.

“Yes.” Arthur says, looking outside the window for a moment. How long would this motley crew last? “But how do you find the strength to keep going some days?

“The people I love,” Matthew says sagely without missing a heartbeat, placing the pot down on the counter and shifting his legs. “Without them, I’d shoot myself in the head rather than turn into one myself.”

It’s clear what ‘one’ is, and Arthur nods in agreement as he grabs the pot again, stirring the half empty contents around.

“This is rather personal, and we’ve only known each other for around a wee-”

“Fifteen days,” Matthew interjects, and it makes Arthur perk up a little at the hint of his snark.

“…Right. But if anything…ever happened to us, or our teammates, would you shoot them in the head for me? I’ll do the same for you and yours. I…you’re right, Matthew. I just don’t want to turn into those things.”

He smiles once, tipping his head to one side in silent agreement. “Of course, Arthur. But we’re a team now. I think we should do it for everyone here.”

Arthur nods once, takes another spoonful of applesauce, and passes the can over.

* * *

june

nineteen crosses on the calendar 

* * *

Densen hasn’t announced a raid today.

Which is to be expected – even members of Group Two and Three – hell, Arthur should stop calling them Group Two and Three after the conversation he had with Matthew – can pick up on Matthias’ utter devotion to Lukas’ broken ass ankle. 

All right, it was just sprained. The spraining wasn’t even that bad, it was only some ligament damage at worst. Lukas had been left with some swelling and walking was mostly painful for him. He could limp on one leg (with a doting Matthias holding his arm like a bedchamber maid, of course) to the bathroom, so it would only be a few days. Unfortunately, Matthias had treated the small sprain like Lukas had contracted stage IV cancer with two weeks to live, so he’s refusing to leave his side at this point in time. 

So for now, Arthur’s learning how to bond (oops, he’s gone. Poof.) with other people other than Lukas and Group One. He gets to know Kiku a little more – the other boy is very reserved and only talks when Arthur approaches him, but after some discussion Arthur hopes that at the very least, he can trust him in battle. 

He daren’t look at Jones when the group breaks off for bed.

They haven’t shared a single word together since that night, after the raid. Arthur doesn’t know what’s going through his head – and probably never will – but his stupid attraction still runs in his blood and at the back of his mind with the way Alfred lingers there, hands touching his waist and mouth against his skin, drawing flames with every motion.

 _Should I even call him Jones any more?_ Arthur thinks to himself as he joins Heracles during dish duty that night. _That was when I thought there would be nothing between us, ever. But after then, perhaps he should be Alfred…_

 _Alfred_ , Arthur thought again, letting himself savour the forbidden taste of the name. It had belonged to the great English king, Sir Alfred Tennyson, and…Batman’s butler. Now he had slotted himself into Arthur’s mind as a bearer of the name. And Arthur couldn’t drive him out.

 “…um, Arthur, isn’t it?” Heracles says, and nudges Arthur gently with his elbow. “I would say that that plate is quite clean.”

 “Oh, oh, I’m sorry,” Arthur stammers, fumbling with the tap and putting the sponge to a side, grabbing a slightly damp tea towel and rubbing it on the rim of the plate. “I was just…thinking about things, that’s all.”

 “Not to worry,” Heracles says, tilting up his head to look at the small window perched on top of the sink. “I do that a lot. There is nothing to be sorry for.”

 “Um. All right,” Arthur says, nodding once – after talking with Kiku, he still wasn’t sure why they were an item – and they continue to clean plates in silence. “So, um. Any ideas for the next raid?”  
  
“I would feel a little embarrassed if I did not go,” Heracles replies, leaning down and pushing back a lock of brown hair with his wrist as his hands are still stained with soap. “After all, we must do all of our fair share. It would be a shame if I bought a gym membership back then for nothing.”

“Oh?” Arthur remarks, raising his eyebrows for a moment. His partner hadn’t said anything about him. Okay, it was probably a problem on his part accepting the idea of Greek muscle without even questioning him. “Kiku didn’t mention it.”

“It’s nothing important,” Heracles says, his voice a little dismissive yet he’s still looking at Arthur with lime eyes. “I was doing my masters in History, but I didn’t have to study much…so it was to take up more time…I also volunteered at a cat shelter but I wanted to do something…more.”

“I see,” Arthur says, and reaches for another plate. “That feels quite interesting.”

“Er. No, it felt quite tiring, actually,” Heracles replies, and puts the plate on the drying rack, facing the weak sun. “I miss showering afterwards, although I tended to stay there for an hour thinking about too many things…" 

Arthur nods, acknowledging him once, before they go back to the silence – however, it has become oddly comfortable, as they rub their fingers raw with cold water and half bottles of probably past expiry date washing detergent.

Perhaps for Kiku, someone who embraces silence, would find ample comfort in someone like Heracles, who doesn’t always need words to say things.

* * *

Alfred is wringing out shirts when Matthias taps him on the shoulder (hard). The fabric is hard and cold underneath his hands, and it brings him an outlet to release some of that ridiculous tension hiding behind his layer of cloth.

“Hey, studly boy,” Matthias snarks, ruffling his hair as Alfred can’t help but belt out a snort at his friend’s dorkiness. “Thought you always left the washing up to Matthew when you were rooming?”

“Studly who? Says the dude who literally spent forty eight hours at his boyfriend’s side,” Alfred retorts, “You’d probably spend the rest of your life kissing his ouchies if you could.”

“Come on, man, he broke his ankle,” Matthias says, but his cheeks are stained pink as he squats down near Alfred. “I gotta tend to him. Listen, he wanted to thank you for helping out him and Arthur that day.”

Alfred can’t help it, and he shivers a little at that name. He and Arthur hadn’t spoken in the two days since after that stolen moment in the living room, something that had ignited a sensation underneath his tan skin, the way that Arthur had looked at him with a mixture of lust yet complicated longing…

It had strangely made him want _more_.

“Hey, tell him that it was nothing,” Alfred offers, rubbing the back of his neck in bashfulness. “We’re a team now, Matthias. Or should I say, _YaBoiHelvar_.”

 "Hell, you really can’t give something up, huh?” Matthias groans, but slings his arm over Alfred’s neck, his cheeks growing redder. “That old forum name feels like an age ago.”

“You’re welcome,” Alfred grins cockily, clipping the white shirt firmly against the string of rope the group had festooned over the ceiling of the patio. “God, now you mention it, I don’t even want to remember my old handle. Probably something about heroes.”

"Well, I guess you finally lived up to it,” Matthias says, slouching against the bannister and running a hand through his unruly hair. “No, but seriously, you saved Lukas out there. I don’t know how to thank you more, buddy.”

“You let me and the rest of our group join your team,” Alfred says sagely, following suit and leaning against the wall. He squints inbetween the shirts to see his old internet friend. “But no, it wasn’t just Lukas I had to save.”

“…oh,” Matthias says, pausing for a moment, wild eyebrows furrowed in thought – _untameable, just like Arthur_ – before he snaps his fingers and leaps up , pointing them directly at a bewildered Alfred.

“Did you move on from Ludwig? You must have, man! Your eyes are all moony. Come on, tell ol’ Matthias who you hooked up with! Was it Lovino?"

“H-Huh? No, Matthias, you’re overthinking it,” Alfred bluffs desperately, holding out his hands and spreading his legs in an attempt to convince his friend that no, he doesn’t get goosebumps every time Arthur walks into the room, neither does he want to touch him every time he hears his voice…

“Okay, so not Lovino,” Matthias says, and his blue eyes peek out from the shirts, mirroring Alfred’s own. “Okay, Ivan?”

Alfred splutters, his nose scrunching up in distaste. “Ugh, _no_! _Not_ in a million years.”

“Oh, you two have _beeeef_ ,” Matthias sings, but pauses for a moment. “Okay, fine, but as long as you’re not interested in Lukas, I won’t come for your ass. Also, Arthur won’t-”

Alfred winces almost immediately, and that gives away the game, from the way Matthias claps his hands together like a performing otter and shrieks like he’s been cast as an extra in an A list film.

“ _Ooh_ , so Arthur Kirkland, huh?” Matthias coos, pushing through the shirts and pinching Alfred’s cheeks. “ _That’s_ who I was missin’ on the team! Oh man, brother, you’ve chosen the prickliest pricks of pricks! Art’s going to devour you alive like some panther.”

“He’s not…that bad,” Alfred retorts, fighting back the red in his cheeks as he thinks of how soft Arthur’s lips were, how smooth his skin felt underneath the touch of his own fingertips, the luxurious flutter of eyelashes against his own as Arthur was closing his eyes, ready to meet him. “I mean. We haven’t murdered each other yet.”

“So. Have you gotten…well, have you two _done the deed_?” Matthias continues, wiggling his eyebrows expressively. “Had some naughty adult naptime? Bended him over and introduced him to all fifty states of good ol’ red-blooded American states?”

“Matthias _Densen_ ,” Alfred blurts, his cheeks flaming scarlet and barely hidden underneath his glasses, a transparent mask to hide his embarrassment. “Man, there’s been nothing, okay? Just a little thing, that’s all. I don’t know if I want to act on it. Arthur and me haven’t done anything about it. Don’t start handing out wedding invitations, brother.”

“Just give it a few more days,” Matthias teases, but pauses. “Although, if you – when the two of you get together, you might not want to hurt him. Because the last thing you’ll probably see above you is Lukas holding a knife in his hand.”

Alfred flings his nearest piece of non-fatal ammo at him in response, and Matthias’ outstretched tongue gets a face full of wet shirt doused with sickly sweet laundry detergent as payment.


	6. vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arthur, posing as if he's in a nicholas sparks novel: well alfred's not coming home...i...
> 
> alfred, like the spanish inquisition: hi (honey), i'm home
> 
> arthur, reverting back to tsundere mode: shit umm b-baka

* * *

june

twenty three crosses on the calendar 

* * *

“Matthias, I am not dying, unfortunately,” Lukas says, trying to break off the sesame crackers into the corner of his mouth as his partner clings onto his arm. “Dear, please let go. Your group is leaving in…right now minutes.”

“But _Lu_ ,” Matthias wails, looking ridiculously overdressed compared to Lukas who’s just wearing a shirt and boxers. “I just wanted to say goodbye! You’ve only started walking yesterday, and I wanted to see you…”

“Matthias,” Lukas tries again, but taking one more look at him, he is compelled to give him a little peck on the cheek. “…not like I was worried or anything. But please, come back safe and with all your limbs. Bring back some canned meat, all right? F-For the storage, naturally. But bring yourself back home first.”

“Aww,” Matthias coos, and gives him a big, sloppy kiss in return that makes Lukas wince but his eyes soften a little. “I’ll do my best!”

Lukas offers a smile, although it’s weak as he looks at Matthias fixing up his backpack, Heracles next to him. 

Today’s raid only has six people – Matthias, Heracles, Alfred, Ivan, Berwald, and Ludwig. Arthur doesn’t question Matthias’ decision to bring almost all the heaviest hitters in the group, as Matthias called it ‘grab and go’. Obviously, they’d have to lift more supplies than usual, so Arthur doesn’t volunteer. That, and the idea of six heavily built men lumbering across the wasteland being labeled as ‘grabbing and going’ is too funny to pass up.

Ludwig looks completely in his element – he’s strapped his holster to his right thigh so it rests snugly around his hipbone, and he’s wearing fingerless leather gloves as he chats lightly to Berwald, hair slicked back as if it’s the 90s with a pompadour style. It’s not much of a chat per se, when Berwald is shrugging on this jacket that only serves to make him even more physically imposing, and he’s tugging fiercely at the sleeves - and if intimidation could kill both could wipe out half of Europe’s zombie population - but it’s a sobering sight nonetheless.

Arthur rearranges himself on his blue couch, his can of Smedley’s baked beans which make him wince as soon as he realizes how fucking salty they are (why, didn’t _that_ sound familiar). He can’t help but look at Alfred, who's fiddling with his dog tags as he sits on the landing floor next to his mostly empty rucksack, relatively close from where Arthur’s sitting cross legged. Their glint catches on their round edges, the dips in the surface that are the engravings. The gleam stands in stark contrast to Alfred’s carefully neutral expression, and that’s what draws Arthur to his stance.

Arthur pretends to be fascinated by his baked beans, but he hopes that even at this vicinity, Alfred can’t look at the tight clench of his fingers against the can or the way his toes curl shut against the soles of his feet as the group walks out of the door.

* * *

Lukas stands tensely on the patio, leaning on the bannister as he scans the empty wasteland. Tino has put down Hana for the night, probably not being able to bear Berwald’s long absence, so it’s just Arthur and Emil standing with him.

“They're just running a little late,” Arthur says, trying his best to soothe him, but it’s clear that tension is painted all over his body by the way that his knuckles curve over the rotting wood and how he looks so intensely at the landscape.

“But what if they don’t?” Lukas echoes with his arms folded. “I know everyone else’s gone to sleep, but I can’t. I spent so long doing nothing, and the fool took so much time to care for me…then he goes out on another stupid raid and then…”

Arthur tries not to notice the tears in his voice as Lukas swallows, trying to recuperate.

“He’s our leader,” Emil says, his voice solemn as he crouches by the bannister, worn sneakers scuffing the floor as he squints against the slats of wood. “What do you think we should do if…?”

 _Alfred,_ Arthur thinks almost instantly, but then remembers that almost all of their heavy hitters have gone off on the scout.

“I don’t know,” Arthur says, turning back to the wasteland.

“I don’t know.”

The three of them stand there, but it’s four am by the time he goes back into the safe house, lying his head against the armrest of the couch, Lukas and Emil’s silhouettes standing in stark contrast to the cool moonlight, worry preying on all of their minds.

* * *

june

twenty four crosses on the calendar

* * *

 They return safely after all, late into the afternoon with a bounty that would make any ragtag group cheer. Berwald unceremoniously dumps three huge bags of crisps in the middle of the table, drops his rucksack like a barrel of wine then goes for Tino, hugging him and lowly apologizing. Those who have had loved ones on the line are allowed to spend the rest of the day with them – obviously allowed to by Matthias, who will attempt to spend the rest of the day sucking face with Lukas – and Arthur watches with a small smile on his face as Matthew tugs at Alfred’s face with a sigh.

Then Alfred turns around to see him, and their eyes meet for one treacherous moment before Arthur’s lips part to say something.

He doesn’t know why he called Alfred outside on the patio after everyone’s had a hearty meal in celebration, but the two of them stand the closest they’ve been ever since that day.

“You’re late,” Arthur says curtly, but looks a little teasingly underneath his fringe as he reclines against the wall of the house, one foot up, one foot down. “You caused Lukas a _lot_ of trouble.”

“Christ, you’re gonna give me shit about that, too?” Alfred says, but it’s neither threatening nor aggressive as he raises a blond eyebrow. “Matthias was wailing about it on the way home, Lukas this, Lukas that.”

“Well, he got no sleep if that seems to soothe your nerves,” Arthur says, chuckling a little, but pauses when he realizes Alfred isn’t laughing. “God, I’m sorry. I’m so shit at this. You must think I hate you.”

Alfred blinks once, slow and dazed as if he’s just come out of a combination of a commercial for Sealy mattresses and L’Oreal (because he’s worth it, damn it all), but Arthur plows on.

“I…can’t,” Arthur forces out the words, twisting his fingers in his shirt. “I…that night we kissed each other, I think you could tell what I was feeling. And no, it wasn’t hatred. I was attracted to you, but…I hated myself for it because I felt weak. You can’t have that in an apocalypse. But God, it was just an attraction and I didn’t want to it to just be a one-time thing and what if it was, and you’re the deputy of this group and I didn’t want to make you derelict in your duties and _mmph_ …!”

Arthur’s mind short circuits as Alfred gently but insistently presses his lips tightly against his own, leaning over his lithe shape to encompass him. Two warm hands cup his face and bring him closer, and for a moment Alfred is frightened that he will resist, that he’s going to ruin what little semblance of a relationship they have together in one fell swoop, that he’s being too forceful.

But Arthur clutches at Alfred’s white shirt with one hand and entwines his fingers with his dog tags in the other, pulling him down to match his own height as they share an embrace in the dead of night. It might not have been the sorts that you’d gush over about in a romantic film (looking at you, Casablanca), yes, but it was enough.

“I’m…sorry, for that,” Alfred says almost as quickly as it is over, backing off with his hands out in a placating gesture. “I’m not good with words at all, but...I get what you’re saying. What you’re trying to say, I mean.”

“I don’t hate you, either,” he presses on. “I can’t. I don’t want it to be a one-time thing either, Arthur. After what happened with Ludwig…I thought that you might have seen me as a traitor. But we’re not together anymore, I promise. Yeah, I might be an asshole, but not to that level.” 

“I heard you two,” Arthur confesses, twisting his fingers so tightly in his own shirt that the fabric balks and tenses. “The night you…broke it off. That’s why I allowed myself to kiss you. I’m not that sort of person either, I swear.”

Alfred grins a little, but it’s hollow as he reclines back on his heels. “Yeah, well. That’s in the past.”

“…thank you, though,” Arthur says haltingly, hands relaxing, and lets himself look back into Alfred’s clear eyes again. “Would you be all right with this…continuing?”

Alfred smiles, a blooming one this time, and holds Arthur’s face so very securely in his warm hands, and runs his thumbs across Arthur’s cheekbones and freckles, leaning in to whisper to what’ll be tucked away for their ears only.

“Let me see you in secret.”

And like that, Arthur has dug his own grave.


	7. vii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what a tool with your cool leather jacket;
> 
> i got news for you, everybody has it
> 
> -revenge, the neighbourhood

* * *

june

twenty five crosses on the calendar 

* * *

They’re not dating.

They’re not  _dating_ , Arthur thinks firmly to himself as he spoons lukewarm pineapple into his mouth and chews fiercely, tightening his jaw to try to stop the irrefutable happiness that grabs at his ribcage every time he hears Alfred’s voice fill with laughter and feel his eyes linger on his skin a little too long. Last night, it wasn’t any better at all, with the two of them sharing a room.

_We can’t be. At least, not for now._

“Okay, team meeting, everyone,” Matthias hollers, forgetting that there’s a very real possibility of zombies lurking outside their safe house doing the fifty person equivalent of a drunk fraternity conga. “Can we talk about the day before yesterday’s raid?”  
  
“No,” Tino says, mischief dancing across his tone as he pulls up a chair next to Berwald and perches on it, his feet on tiptoe as he grins at Matthias. “Densen, have a talk with a deputy or something before you go rushing out with the strongest members of our group.”

“Hey, but I left you here, didn’t I?” Matthias chuckles, to which Tino concedes to with a tilt of his head. “No, but Tino’s right. I shouldn’t have left the base mostly unguarded if a horde came a knockin’ and Tino couldn’t snipe them all down. Pew pew.”

_Jesus Christ, what are we in, fourth grade? Not cool, Densen, not cool. Well, I mean, you have the mental stability of one, but…_

“I’d say have either you or Alfred stay in the safe house every time we go on a raid,” Ludwig says sagely, hands resting on the chair that Feliciano’s sitting on. “Since you and Alfred seem to operate efficiently together. I agree with Tino’s suggestion of a deputy role, and he should fill it.”

“In lieu of democracy, then, is anyone going to object?” Matthias asks, sharing a glance with Alfred. Arthur thinks twice about objecting to mess with Alfred’s mind and wrinkles his nose to fight the bout of laughter bubbling in his chest. 

No one speaks.

“Hmm, okay then! It’s settled,” Matthias says cheerfully, and claps his hands. “All right, as the leader then, I’ll give a quick briefing about how it went.”

“What about the reason you were late?” Kiku asks, but it’s not confrontational as he takes a seat next to Arthur, feet shifting. “I understand that you may have had a good reason, but for the sake of the group it is best to know.”

“No, there’s not a problem with that, buddy! Basically, well, we took a lot of stuff, and by the time we got ready to leave it was pretty dark. So we just decided to stay low for the night and come home all well rested and sunny!" 

“…not true, exactly,” Yao objects, bobbing his head a little, “Heracles has been asleep since last night.”

“Huh. Uh, well, he insisted on taking up night duty,” Matthias says, a little embarrassed, and Arthur can’t help but exchange an amused look with Alfred. “Anyway...with the roadmap for this safe house, if we’re really desperate we can stay Christmas, latest. But it’s good to move on earlier than that.”

“All right, that sounds reasonable,” Lovino says, his arms folded as he slouches against the wall. “But we have to agree when we leave.”

He makes a pointed gesture at Ludwig and it would take someone blindfolded with a fleece, backed up fifty metres and horrible eyesight to not notice it. Ludwig, to his credit, merely tries his best to avoid his gaze, keeping it firmly fixed on Matthias.

Gilbert raises a silvery eyebrow on the corner of Arthur’s vision coupled with a frustrated frown and a swift movement from his stump, and opens his mouth to breathe.

“No,” Matthew says before he can even talk, and runs his hands through his hair. “Gil, it’s not the time for that. Not right now. It’s all gone and past, so we’re not bringing it up.  _Especially_ since we’re in a bigger group.”

Lovino pursues his lips, clearly unsatisfied with the exchange, but backs down, angrily staring at the floor. Gilbert gives him another chilling glare, but follows suit, and the atmosphere in the room becomes just a little less loaded as Lovino wrings his hands out and Gilbert just rearranges his legs, looking at Matthew’s direction before turning around, clearly more than a little frustrated.

“…uh, okay, then,” Matthias says, looking quite a bit self conscious as he slips Lukas’ hand into his own (Lukas doesn’t resist). “Yao’s cooking tonight I believe?"

“Correct,” Yao says curtly from where he’s standing close to the table’s edge. “Nothing fancy tonight, I’m afraid.”

“Cool!” Matthias declares. “Right, meeting adjourned! Please respect bathroom rules and don’t drop towels all over the floor, please.”

Just then, Heracles stumbles in – mousy brown hair falling like a cloak over his face as he rubs at his nose and blinks groggily at the congregated group. 

“Oh. Um. I am sorry for missing the party,” he says, and Arthur notices that his shirt is barely buttoned as he shuffles next to Ludwig. “Is there a specific reason why we’re all gathered here…?”

Ludwig pinches his nose and looks like he wants to die. The colour has drained from Matthias’ face, and Alfred already looks dead as the fingers that were adjusting his leather jacket pinch the fabric.

_Well hell, I can see why he could sleep through a lukewarm fridge,_ Arthur thinks as half of the group files out of the room, leaving a groggy and slightly disturbed Heracles behind.

* * *

“ _PASTA!_ ” comes a yell that echoes throughout the whole house, and Arthur thinks again about the possibility of the drunk fraternity conga. To be fair, at this point in time, they would have been high on cough syrup and Lucozade and be pelting at their safe house half naked shrieking slogans.

“Yes, well,” Yao says, looking a little embarrassed at how Feliciano looks almost to tears at the sight of lukewarm spaghetti with lumps of tomatoes and a thick sauce. “I assumed almost everyone was sick of soup cans, so I decided to switch it up.”

“But it’s  _pasta_ ,” Feliciano cries as if he’s found the holy grail, and envelopes Yao into yet another hug, then starts bubbling Italian that Lovino starts to snort at around the fifteen second mark. “Oh,  _thank you_ ,” Feliciano gushes, grabbing Yao’s hands and twirling him around.

Yao simply raises an eyebrow and balances on his heels, and then quickly untangles himself from the overenthusiastic Italian and goes to grab bowls. “Um. Help yourself…?”

With a triumphant shout Feliciano skips into the kitchen and comes back with another armful of bowls stacked on one arm, waving frantically, forks in hand.

“He seems to be treating it like it’s his own meal,” Yao says dryly, but doesn’t look too bothered as it’s literally a can of soupy tomatoes and stale pasta boiled in tap water. “Right, well. You heard him.”

Surprisingly, it’s  _good_. Even though there’s neither hearty meatballs nor steady microwave, it’s spaghetti and it’s simple. Arthur twists the pasta and dunks it into his sauce, not caring if he smears it onto his lips and licks it off instead of wiping it off. Fair enough, he was able to forgo his manners during an apocalypse, screw it all. 

He catches Alfred’s eye, and the other boy winks at him – oh? Two could play at this game, Arthur thinks as he saucily (ha ha. He should meet the firing squad for that pun) licks his lips and lets his teeth catch on his bottom lip, watching Alfred’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows tightly.

This game of seduction is not one he’s going to lose, even during an apocalypse.

* * *

june

twenty seven crosses on the calendar

* * *

 “At least he was in the raid group, or I swear to Jesus Christ that Ludwig would have laid into him,” Alfred grouses, and he reclines a little on the couch – they’re sharing Alfred’s couch since it’s a little larger and Arthur supposes he wants to cuddle somewhat. Relationship 101, people.

Even though the Heracles Incident (trademark pending) happened two days ago, it’s been quiet lately so there’s nothing else for them to gossip about.

“Are you sure? Heracles looks rather beefy, I must say,” Arthur counters, but it’s not barbed as it usually is as he touches his nose to Alfred’s. “I’d like to keep this safe house for a while."

“I mean. The two of them are pretty damn strong,” Alfred says, the tips of his mouth curving into a smile. “They wouldn’t stand a chance against  _me_ , though.”

“Ha ha,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes. “Please. Ludwig would plow you into the bannister if he hasn't already.”

“Uh. You don’t want to know what happened in the first month in Germany,” Alfred says, sighing loudly and running a hand through those locks of his. “Nah, no way! I’d still be stronger.”

“Yuk, I didn’t need to know  _that_ ,” Arthur huffs, grimacing a little, “But  _no way_. He’d probably slog you over his shoulder and dump you outside screaming before you could even say zombie.”

 “Wouldn’t!” Alfred insists hotly, his face flushing as if he were a child throwing a tantrum.

“Would,” Arthur hums, and looks into his eyes. “Try to convince me otherwise.”

“…wouldn’t,” Alfred pouts, but blinks childishly, as if he were looking wide eyed at a sweetshop. “I might be able to convince you of something else, though.”

“And what might that be?” Arthur asks, and entwines his fingers in Alfred’s shirt collar – he’s wearing a blue polo that makes him look like a retired golfer with three children and lives in a Spanish penthouse, but he still manages to look  _good_ in it. He doesn’t know anything about seduction or passionate love affairs, but he feels that there’s somehow got to be a Lana Del Rey video about polo shirts.

…was that weird? Jesus fish balls on a rotting stick, he was losing his mind at this point.

 “That we could be in a relationship,” Alfred says, catching Arthur’s hand and bringing it up to his lips as he speaks – the suddenness of the movement has Arthur caught off guard and his cheeks staining. “It might take time, yeah. And I guess there are a lot of things that we have to get through, but eventually.”

“Maybe,” Arthur says, and allows him to curl his fingers over Alfred’s cheek. It’s strangely warm even though he’s not visually blushing, and for a moment he’s afraid of the possibility of it being more. Settling down together eventually, surviving together, finding a new life together…or watching this one end with each other. “Perhaps, perhaps.”

But would that be so bad?

“What’s holding us back?” Alfred says, leaning his face sideways so the soft cartilage of his ear brushes against Arthur’s knuckles and their eyes meet again. “The zombie apocalypse? The group finding out? My ex – uh, Ludwig?”

“No, it’s just not…I don’t just fall in love within two weeks, Alfred,” Arthur says, still perching on top of him but looking away for a moment. “It’s just not me.”

“Hey,” Alfred says, and his voice is a little sweeter – perhaps is it Arthur’s imagination? “It’s okay with me. But…I just want you to think of a possibility down the line.”

“W-Well, I…” Arthur blanches, quickly thinking back to the overtly lewd thoughts he had of Alfred before anything romantic had floated in his head. “I…I suppose…”

“Arthur,” Alfred says, using that same softened tone, “You just called me Alfred for the first time. That…gives me hope that the two of us could begin again, maybe.”

“…I, I!” Arthur splutters, cheeks blooming into red as he realizes how he’d subconsciously called him by his first name, not his last! Ack, ack, no… “Idiot…”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” Alfred winks, but pauses as he feels Arthur shudder on top of him. “Huh. You have a nickname kink or something?”

“N-No!” Arthur hisses, but does feel his heart tremor with want. The way he had said it brought a certain heat that was difficult to fight off…

“Hmm,” Alfred purrs, a wicked grin caressing his face, “How about sugar? Honey?”

Arthur bites his lip and shakes his head as if he’s being caught on a rollercoaster, minus the death and the screaming, but the stupid shivers come on again when Alfred traces up his neck and cups his chin, leaving flames in his wake, tugging him down so that they’re practically sharing the same air.

“Ah, I know,” Alfred says, his voice weighted with a delicious Southern accent that Arthur wants to be pinned down to the table and be repeatedly ravished by. “How about… _darlin’?_ ”

Rest in peace, Arthur’s oxygen. It was  _not_ nice knowing you.

“Jesus Christ, Arthur, don’t make that sort of noise,” Alfred grins, hearing Arthur’s soft mewl of arousal. “You’ll attract all sorts of  _wickedness_.”

“I’d like to see what sort,” Arthur purrs, looking at him through his lashes and arranging his legs so he sits a little more seductively (on his lap!!!). “Or are you all talk,  _Jones_?”

“It’s  _Alfred_ ,” Alfred grunts, and pins him to the couch, parting his mouth and pressing it insistently against Arthur’s, so close that his glasses press against the bridge of his nose and the glass fogs up as Arthur grips a fistful of his shirt, their embrace consuming one another.

They hastily untangle themselves from each other as soon as they hear a door open, and Arthur scrambles back to his couch, where he touches a finger to his swollen lips and lets Alfred overtake his mind for a moment, and then some.

* * *

june

twenty eight crosses on the calendar 

* * *

Tino and his squadron come back from the abandoned town with a pack of blood spattered sponges and an empty water bottle, twenty percent clearance. They’ve been to the half of the town that the group thought was plentiful.

They can’t stay until Christmas.

 


	8. viii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which it's matthew's (pitiful) birthday, and lovino tries to fasten knots.

* * *

july

one cross on the calendar

* * *

 Apparently, today was Matthew’s birthday.

At least, that’s what the German screaming was about as Arthur fell off the couch (again) thanks to his rude awakening.

“Good morning mother _fucker_ ,” Arthur spits, sticking his leg out instead of collapsing ungracefully onto the floor. “What do you want?”

“It’s my Birdie’s birthday today,” Gilbert sings, his eyes moony as he clasps his hands together and twitters all over the floor to Arthur’s dismay. He doesn’t even hide his grimace as he rights himself to his feet. At least the virus wasn’t airborne, or he’d have taken in enough with his wide-open mouth for six lifetimes. “My awesomeness is going to bake a cake!”

“No, we're going on a raid today,” Matthew says, but gives him a quick peck as he walks out into the room. “Happy birthday to me, I suppose.”

“Happy birthday, gorgeous,” Gilbert coos, and practically throws himself at the Canadian, which Arthur quickly sidesteps in favour of the kitchen. “I love you lots and lots," 

“Blech,” Arthur gags, and continues to make a beeline for the kitchen, determined to avoid even looking at them and tuning out the obnoxious sounds of their lips smacking together. “Matthew, I suppose Matthias will let you have a whole pack of jelly beans to yourself.”

“No flour lying around? Oh well,” Matthew says, untangling himself from Gilbert with a laugh. “Gilbear, you know having you at my side is enough cause for celebration.”

Arthur, upon hearing the sickly nickname, abandons his search for his breakfast and retches in the sink.

Francis comes in and starts weeping in French, and he has a second thought of opening the window, squeezing out himself and his organs out of the window frame and into the great wilderness beyond.

* * *

“No, Tino’s right,” Ivan says, lips disappearing into a thin line as he holds his hands in front of him. “Tino’s group went to five locations. No safe house lasts forever. We have to move.”

Matthias looks a little frustrated as his authority’s being somewhat defied, but he simply looks at Alfred. “Why should we believe that Tino’s hiding something from us? I don’t think we have a reason to distrust him." 

“Are you sure about that?” Lovino says, raising an eyebrow and shooting a glare at the sniper. “I don’t think Tino was the friendliest person around when we showed up.”

“I _said_ , it was nothing personal,” Tino says, gritting his teeth and letting out a groan. “You’re not seriously going to challenge my words? Two members of your own group were with me. In case you didn’t notice, Vargas, we don’t have time to be pointing weapons at each other.”

“If we’re moving on from a well stocked town, we _will_ have time,” Lovino retorts, and folds his arms, crossing a leg over another. “I say we bring another team to do one last sweep before we make plans.”

“What a waste of time,” Tino growls, and makes a pointed gesture at Matthias. “This _älykääpiö_ ’s letting his hatred blind his common judgement. If there is to be some sort of group, he’s going by himself.”

Arthur winces; from now he’s already learned that Tino insulting others in Finnish is not a good sign. Lovino’s eyes narrow, and he looks like he’s prepared to pull up a little booklet of Italian insults and curse Tino from the ends of the Earth and back, but to his surprise, Ludwig stands up from his seat.

Matthew chews on his ‘birthday cake’ (the rest of the third pack of Jammy Dodgers) and doesn’t say anything, but glances at Gilbert, nervousness lighting in his eyes. God knows, based on what happened last time, whether there’s going to be a full out brawl or not. If that happened, they would _have_ to move out of the safe house for sure.

“Lovino, if you’re going to create a sweeping group, I would…like to be part of it,” Ludwig states stoutly, to audible gasps and double takes, mostly from Group Two and Three. “I understand…and I trust in Tino and their group, but it’s not safe to go alone. If you insist.”

“…” Lovino doesn’t say anything, a mix of frustration and bewilderment blooming onto his face as their eyes meet. 

“I would want to…change from how the group used to operate in the past,” Ludwig continues, wringing out his hands. “I agree with Ivan. Even though we should leave, I will support the last group.”

“I’ll go as well,” Gilbert says, although his tone is clipped as he looks straight at Lovino. “Make sure the two of you don’t eat each others’ heads off like last time.”

Ludwig rubs the back of his neck as he tries to reassure his older (???) brother, but by the crease of the German’s eyebrows, he’s not budging. Tino runs his hands through his fair hair and watches as they assemble a small group of Lovino, Ludwig and Gilbert. Berwald and Yao offer to pitch in with furrowed brows, and that’s that.

“Tino, I’ll w’tch over them f’r the group’s sake,” Berwald mutters, tilting his chin down to his partner. “Don’t w’rry.”

“If you get hurt in any way, I’m blaming the fool,” Tino says coldly, but his hands have stuffed themselves in the pocket of his pants and he’s not quite meeting Berwald’s eyes. “I’m sorry, all right? I’m really trying. But after what happened…”

“I underst’nd,” Berwald says, running his fingers over his stubble, “However I believe Lovino has had a poor exp’rience as well. We said b’fore that we must agree wh’n we leave.”

The two of them leave the room along with the other members of the group, that look like they’re more than willing to find excuses to go somewhere else. After the revelation last night, some people have already started packing.

Arthur slides his way to Matthew and purloins a biscuit before moving back into his usual seat.

* * *

“Think about it,” Yao says slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose as he looks at the long empty supermarket aisle, dust sitting forlornly on top of the silver coloured metal. “The first place people would have ran to when the virus broke out was here. It’s a miracle they even found the water. Not even spoilt.”

Lovino grits his teeth and glares at the aisles as if they could conjure up an all you can eat breakfast buffet complete with silver cutlery, but it’s in vain. 

Ludwig and Yao exchange a harried glance, but they say nothing as they continue combing through the surrounding shops, the silence growing more and more deafening as the hours pass.

The one shop that has had _some_ semblance of pickings is a baseball themed hobby shop. It’s mostly filled with empty racks that used to hold baseball mitts, coupled with a fistful of baseball cards and magazines still stuck in their wrappings, and an empty cage like contraption that looked upset without their baseballs. The light bulbs were defunct and a few of them were swinging, and there were traces of paper from where posters must have been ripped.

“Fuck, I should have visited this place earlier,” Lovino says darkly under his breath, hand reaching for an empty hanger. He’d always loved the Los Angeles Angels, after all. Might have done well with a red shirt. “But then why would it be empty like this…it’s just some baseball apparel store.”

“Lovino!” Gilbert shouts, and Lovino whips around to see a blessed sight instead of a mound of zombies – two silver baseball bats, one slung over Yao’s shoulder, and one that was in his hands. “Thought you’d might like to pick this up.”

“Thank fuck this trip wasn’t a waste,” Lovino swears under his breath, reaching for the comfortable hilt and letting his hands wrap around it, a little overwhelmed by the familiarity. It felt like he was back in the Roman square near their villa again, hat over his eyes and waving at Feli and Grandpa. “…thanks, Gil.”

“You needed a weapon,” Gilbert replies, adjusting his backpack as Lovino bounces the end of it off his left hand. “Thought you’d take a fancy to something you’re used to. Felci said the two of you used to play baseball, so.”  
  
“He’s not wrong,” Lovino says, and he’s shrugging and sounding dismissive but Gilbert catches a hint of a smile on his face.

“Look, kid, I didn’t…want to start anything back there,” Gilbert says, scratching the back of his neck as pink eyes meet brown. “But Ludwig’s my kid brother. Love him to death. I don’t want there to be any drama in this group, period. But we had no choice. It was either to get the two of you out or-”

“Beilschmidt, I don’t want to discuss that bullshit,” Lovino insists, grip on the handle of the bat tightening. “We should keep moving. But thanks for the weapon.”

“Vargas, don’t-" 

“Not _now_ , Gilbert,” Lovino says, his shoulders hunching and his eyes narrowing. “God, I don’t want to fucking make the group feel like a sack of shit because me. I’m not on welfare.”

“Bastard, don’t try bottling it up,” Gilbert says harshly, Berwald and Yao exchanging concerned glances. Berwald tilts his head to alert Ludwig, who’s standing guard near the doorway, feet antsy. “You did this in our other safe house as well. Shutting Felci out won’t do any good.”

“Christ, am I wrong?” Lovino shouts, his cheeks flushed with anger as he takes another loud step forward; not caring whether there are zombies anywhere near their vicinity. “It’s always Feliciano this, Feliciano that. I’m the unwanted one. If you fuckers could have, you would have gotten rid of me months ago.”

“Yeah, I would have given up one of my best _goddamn_ friends for someone we hated!” Gilbert snarls, grabbing a fistful of Lovino’s shirt, eyes molten as he glares at the Italian. “I know you don’t like yourself, Vargas. But don’t try to put your sorry ass down for the rest of us. Don’t you dare try to pretend that Fritz’s sacrifice wasn’t anything but worth it.”

Lovino clenches his jaw and wrests his grip away from the albino, end of the bat hitting the ground as he backs off – one, two, three steps, glaring him down. “I’m not saying your friend’s sacrifice was a waste. I’m not sure if you should have rescued me at all!” 

“You know I don’t have a stomach for people trying to needlessly put themselves down,” Gilbert says, his voice brittle as he runs a hand through his messy hair. “Cut the bullshit, Lovino. You – _we_ – have a team to give a fuck about right now. We have to listen to each other.”

“ _Bruder_ ,” Ludwig says, his fingers curling over the rotting wood and his voice tense as he waits outside the doorway, his German accent prominent in that one word. “We have to go. There are some disturbances outside.”

Gilbert makes a gesture with his head at Lovino with raised eyebrows, then runs outside to join the other three of the group. Lovino stands there, arms folded, and painfully swallows once, but slowly makes his way back out to the group, slinging the baseball bat over his shoulder. 

_What if? No, whatever. Fuck everything._

* * *

“Lud, give me the gun you put in your holster,” Gilbert says under his breath, eyeing the small patch of undead. It’s fifteen or sixteen, like Lukas said they had encountered all those days ago, but they’re still relatively armed, if not to the teeth. “Or do you want me to use the bat?" 

“You know you’re not strong enough for that,” Ludwig replies, but there is a hint of humour – _wow, who could have known he could laugh?_ – in his words as he reaches for the gun strapped to his thigh. “Right, just cover me and Yao. Berwald, Lovino, go at the alleyways and dismember their flanks. Got it?"

“Yes,” the three of them chorus, save for a sputtering Gilbert. At the very least, Lovino’s thankful for the fact that younger Beilschmidt is trying to stay neutral, so.

He rests his knee on the dusty ground behind the flowerbed five footsteps away from the store facing the long abandoned road, trying not to wince at the telltale low groans the zombies always emit. He hears a splattering of guts, the smattering of a body hitting the floor, and a triumphant yell of ‘headshot!’ and finally re-remembers that elder Beilschmidt _loves_ the battlefield.

_Ping!_ Another one goes down, and by Jesus does the sound of the baseball bat landing its target ring in Lovino’s ears like music. Unfortunately, the stomach turning sound of guts spilling out behind the brick wall, accompanied by the tasteful blackness of its blood, negates that completely.

The first time Lovino killed a zombie, he vomited. God, it was so embarrassing.

_But not now,_ he thinks as he creeps out of the flowerbed that flanks the baseball shop, sun glinting off _his_ bat as he takes a swing at a zombie. The fellow’s wearing a muddied red and black-checkered shirt (revolting fashion sense, regardless of life form) and his eyes are cloudy. Yeah. Too far gone. He doesn’t even need to take a breath now as he swings at his head, watching it hit the floor with one sickly groan, filthy hair and all.

“Lovino,” Berwald says, holding up one hand. Lovino waits; raising his head to make sure that there’s enough space between him and the rest of the other walkers, then skitters to the Swede’s flowerbed, not bothering to wipe away the rest of the gunk on his baseball bat.

Well. It wasn’t signed, at least.


	9. ix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which lovino and gang return, and arthur creates the hateful boyfriends book club.

* * *

_june_

_two crosses on the calendar_

* * *

It’s hot tonight.

Their eyes meet for a split second before Alfred cups his chin and tugs him in for another, pulling them towards his couch, doused with his scent. Arms wrap around Arthur’s waist like tendrils, and Arthur lets himself forget the mess that they are in.

He has always thought they would be a disasterology – but with every touch Alfred delivers against his creamy skin, with every deep kiss they share, Arthur loses himself for just this night.

Alfred lays back on the couch, his lips swollen and his shirt laced with Arthur’s smell and eyes closed in almost bliss. His glasses have fogged up multiple times, and as soon as he hears Arthur’s soft breaths sweep around the room he lifts his white shirt to his nose and takes a deep whiff.

_…roses._

_What the fuck? Does this guy sew flowers in his clothes or something?_

“It’s…getting late,” Arthur whispers, but his thoughts are really anywhere but with the man beneath him as he runs a knuckle down Alfred’s cheek. “They’re not back yet. What if…”

“They’ll be back, I know it,” Alfred pants, his smile crooked as he parts his lips slightly. “But for now, I’m not gonna let you finish that thought.”

“Wha…?” Arthur stutters, tilting his head in such an endearing fashion that Alfred kisses the little crease in between his thick ass eyebrows (cute!) then moves down, peppering affection against his eyelids, cheekbones, then lingering on his lips. One of his hands gently moulds Arthur’s body to his in an elegant arch, and Arthur can’t help but squirm a little as Alfred’s warm mouth trails past his lips down to his neck…

“Oi, wai – t!” he gasps as Alfred’s teeth latch onto his pale skin at his throat, chuckling a little as he suckles at the spot until it’s rosy red. Alfred can feel his heartbeat quicken at his touches, and simply lets Arthur remain at the mercy of his relentless ministrations. The little vibrations that he makes in his throat from his moans are cute yet arousing at the same time… 

“I-Idiot,” Arthur mumbled, hands fisting at the back of Alfred’s blond hair, not really knowing where else or how else to arrange his legs on his lap. “N-Not now…” 

“Then when?” Alfred murmurs against his skin, looking deep into Arthur’s green eyes. “We’re moving soon, after all. We’ve gotta steal all the time we have together.”

“…hnn,” Arthur breathes as protest, but another thought blooms in his mind about Alfred’s fingers. Where would they go – run down his sides to elicit goosebumps, another arm around his waist to secure him, or maybe thumb at the button of his pants, undoing them…?

Shut up. He’s thirsty for Alfred Jones, damn it all. If he were a water skin, Arthur would be drinking him dry-

_Not fucking helping, Jesus,_ Arthur mentally shouts at himself for, now thinking whether he should undo _Alfred’s_ pants and give him a sucking he’d never forget. Alfred’s moans would sound deep; a roughened, husky noise that would send shivers down anyone’s back if they heard it.

“…uh, Arthur, you’re drooling a bit,” Alfred says, raising an eyebrow, his voice rumbling with laughter as he tilts his chin up so that their eyes meet. “Care to tell me what you’re thinkin’ about, darlin’?" 

_He’s putting on that STUPID ACCENT_ , Arthur internally shouts, and makes a strangled denial that he’s thinking of anything remotely lewd. A thousand excuses float back and forth between his mind and his lips, until he himself is tired of all this tension and wraps his arms fiercely around Alfred’s neck, not caring what the fallout is as their lips join once more.

He doesn’t want to let go. Arthur has craved the strange stability Alfred almost always seems to invoke in him every time his hands entwine with his and their eyes meet, blue to green, for a long time.

“It’s…it’s nothing,” Arthur denies quickly, turning away with heat dancing on his cheeks, but Alfred cups his chin with his free hand, the other one still supporting his back as he brings his face close.

“You make…an expression,” Alfred says thickly, his voice a balm to Arthur’s wild thoughts. “You scrunch up your nose, and you look away from me. What is it?”

“I told you…it’s the falling in love thing,” Arthur says, and adjusts his legs so he’s sitting to the side in Alfred’s lap. “It’s not a love like those in the books. They’re just stories, after all. We’ll just end up as fuck buddies and I can’t…I don’t…”

“Hey, listen,” Alfred says, and Arthur turns around, for the first time in the night aware of their dangerous proximity. “I, uh, I liked Nicholas Sparks as well, aight?”

“…thanks,” Arthur retorts, raising a thick eyebrow. “Please, say that you like Pride and Prejudice as well.”

“Christ, I’m not a Shakespeare person, I watched only the movies,” Alfred says, and for a moment Arthur’s attraction dithers. Hell, he’d be the type of person to bust out how much he’d loved Harry Potter then claim he only watched the film. Tosser.

“Look, that’s…that’s not what I meant about that. Also, Jane Austen wrote Pride and Prejudice, but…never mind. We’re not in _The Notebook_ , we’re in a fucking zombie apocalypse. And that’s just the way things are." 

“Who says we have to be in _The Notebook_?” Alfred asks, linking his fingers with Arthur’s. “Hey, Arthur. It’s okay to be scared of this.”

“What should we call… _this_?” Arthur says, his gaze unwavering as he looks at Alfred. He lets himself rest his hands on his chest, fingers curling against the steady warmth of his body. “I don’t…I’ve never known something like this.”

“God, neither have I, either,” Alfred says, looking down to where they are connected. “I’ve never felt so…so scared about a relationship. Christ. I’ve never been so intimidated by caring for a single person.”

“I find that hard to believe, since you were once in a relationship with the ever daunting Ludwig Beilschmidt,” Arthur counters, but gives him a wan smile. “I suppose you mean emotionally." 

“Yeah,” Alfred says, holding Arthur’s hands tighter against his chest. “What do you call someone like me then?”

God, that boyish enthusiasm that Alfred embodies is enough for Arthur to fall for him. There’s almost none of it left in an apocalypse.

“Love struck – you and me both,” Arthur says, voice silvery, and it’s him that leans in this time, eliminating the little distance they have between them as he tucks his slender legs to the side. Arthur pushes back a stray strand of his wheat hair behind his ear as they meet again. Alfred feels the edges of Arthur’s lips prink up into a smile as his eyelashes flutter shut against Arthur’s. One hand wraps around both of Arthur’s and presses them tightly against his pounding heart while the other arm snakes around his thighs ( _nice_ ), pulling them closer to his body.

“Right on both counts, I guess,” Alfred whispers against his mouth, pulling him back in and filling Arthur with a strange taste of happiness, something he hasn’t felt since before the apocalypse. “At least, on this one here.”

 It was just like those romantic novels, wasn’t it? And it was the part where one of the characters’ eyes close in bliss, which they did. 

Their embrace is interrupted by a sound of scintillating footsteps, unfortunately, and they break apart, eyes hungry and fingers desperate for each other as Arthur parts to his couch, gaze alert.

He doesn’t feel ashamed, no. But who would have a love affair in these circumstances?

“Oi! Is anyone awake?” a voice – Lovino Vargas’s – shouts, and Alfred hurriedly replies, and Arthur holds a hand to his head and pretends to just be waking up.

“Godspeed, Lovino,” Alfred says hurriedly, waving in the rest of his group. “Anything out there?”

“Tino was right,” Lovino says, and his head dithers as he slings the stained bat he has off his shoulders and onto the floor of the landing outside. “Dead as a fucking doornail outside. We found two bats, but nothing else.”

“Did anyone get hurt?” Arthur asks as he shuts the door behind them. Yao trails in, ponytail drooping. “S-Since there weren’t any good pickings…”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to get a drink,” Yao says, and everything by the hunch of his shoulders and his desolate gait tell Arthur that he thinks that the trip was a total waste. Yikes. “It’s still goddamn hot outside.”

“Oh,” Arthur says dumbly, pausing to look at Ludwig – then he sees his reflection in his eyes. Certainly, the view’s not so good, but one look at his mussed hair and unkempt shirt tells Arthur of his general scruffiness. Unfortunately, he couldn’t look like model material because of his circumstances, but still. He looks hell of a lot comfier than the group.

“Do we have to call a group meeting?” Ludwig says, his speech slurring as he puts down his empty rucksack.

“No, almost everyone’s gone to sleep,” Alfred replies in tandem, looking in the direction of the rooms. “Just knock out for the night then we’ll talk about the situation in the morning.”

For once, Ludwig seems content to retire, and staggers into the bathroom, the others moving to follow his example until the room quietens and it’s just the two of them again. 

“Jesus Christ, if that’s not bad, I don’t know what is,” Alfred says into the velvet of the night – they’re back to their respective couches. “So, I guess we’re really moving.”

“Yes, it seems so,” Arthur says, closing his heavy eyes – until another thought hits him, out of the blue. “Alfred?” 

“Yeah?"

“When we get to the new safe house,” Arthur says, slowing his speech so that he won’t have to repeat himself, “Would you be all right with rooming with me? Seeing that your brother is staying with the albino, and…”

“…Oh, um, yeah, sure,” Alfred stutters, and Arthur’s breath hitches, hesitates. “No, Arthur, it’s not what you think. I just didn’t think that you’d want to room with me.”

“Surely you know by now that I don’t despise you in any way, shape or form,” Arthur huffs, the sound resonating in the still room. There’s a small hum in the background, and even from where he’s resting he can hear a very slow drip of water into the sink. “Yes, Alfred. I would want to.”

“Thanks,” Alfred says, a heaving sound accompanied with a small chuckle. “Give me a moment, Arthur.” 

“Wha-” Arthur sputters, blinking rapidly – until Alfred places a kiss on his forehead, accompanied by three quick, loud footsteps before the heat is gone and Arthur is left to press two fingers against the mark and then press them against his own lips before falling asleep. 

* * *

_june_

_three crosses on the calendar_

* * *

“Okay, so we’ll leave on the week of the fifteenth,” Matthias says brightly, and claps his hands together at the less than thrilled team. Lovino picks at the edge of the table, and Ludwig exchanges a reassuring glance with Feliciano. Tino nurses his coffee, sloshing the lumpy substance in his chipped cup, and Emil stares at the substance with a certain hunger in return. “Thanks for the report, gang! Any other news before we disband for the day?”

“Well, yes,” Matthew pipes up, expression bright, strangely matching those of his partner (passed out on Alfred’s couch). “It’s Alfred’s birthday tomorrow. Should we do something special?”  
  
“What’s the occasions?” Ivan says blankly, to which Ludwig mildly agrees to celebrate.

“Woah, woah, Matt, what the f-” Alfred breaks off, to which Matthew simply winks and shushes him.

“Let’s do a group vote, surely,” Lukas remarks. He folds his arms and leans back on his chair, nudging Arthur less than subtly. “All those in favour?”

“We should have a party,” Feliciano chirps, clapping his hands together. “Why not?”

“Yeah, well, I thought we were going to pack,” Lovino says morosely, but it’s in no way a rejection.

“I see,” Lukas says delicately, and turns to Arthur (with a stupid bat of his eyelashes). “So what do _you_ think, Arthur?”

God, Arthur has half a mind to laugh at him and say no.

But that wouldn’t be fair to Alfred.

_I mean_ , Arthur thinks to himself as he slowly drags himself to face Lukas, _they don’t know, right? No one does. Not even Matthew._

“I don’t see why not,” Arthur replies in tandem, looking directly into Alfred’s eyes as he tucks his feet underneath the table.

He hopes that no one else can see the smile that just about reaches Alfred's eyes.


	10. x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which alfred and arthur do their best to be ignored, and the group tries to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick explanation for my absence, tl;dr i have finals. i'm halfway finished with them so here's an update! :)

* * *

_june_

_four crosses on the calendar_

* * *

“Jesus, wipe that smile off your face,” Arthur snorts, seizing Alfred’s cheek and giving it a squeeze. “You look like you just won the bloody lottery.”

“Come on, cut me some slack,” Alfred says softly, and leans forward, his hands dropping into Arthur’s lap. “Let a guy enjoy his birthday for once, huh?”

“Why do you think I voted _for_ the group to have a day off packing and leaving today?”

“What, so you could get another half hour of sleep?”

“Dolt,” Arthur huffs, but gently touches the slim tip of his nose to Alfred’s. “Happy birthday, love.” 

To his surprise, though, Alfred flushes a cute pink, the colour prominent against his faint freckles as he looks down and away. Arthur, who is understandably baffled, leans forward a little to ask but stops as Alfred blushes even harder in response.

Yes, he used to be the leader of a zombie apocalypse group. 

“What’s wrong?” Arthur says, and reaches out with his arm to touch Alfred’s muscle – er, arm – and he turns peony, biting his lip and fidgeting.

“It’s just that…oh,” Alfred says as if he’s a love struck schoolgirl, “You called me love.”

“All right…?” Arthur says, squinting in confusion. “Surely that’s not overstepping a boundary?”

“N-No,” Alfred stammers, and it’s almost as if it’s the first time he’s ever been embarrassed. “I…love, right? I do too…”

“What are you natteri-” Arthur begins, ear tips flushed until he realises what Alfred means and lets his face light up a brilliant red. Oh, no. Oh, he didn’t mean it _that_ way, but…

And then it hit Arthur that Alfred had confessed, that his face was radiating heat and Alfred was looking back at him, and Arthur could see the little lick of his fringe where it was still damp from his shower, and-

“Okay, Al, buddy, you better be what _the fuck_ is this good morning amen,” Gilbert says as he stumbles into the living room and takes very detailed internal notes of their closeness. “Holy _shit_. What are you guys doing?”

 _Thinking about how to murder a German_ , Arthur thinks, coupled with the belief that his cheeks could set something on fire. “Wha…what the h-”

“Gilberry, I can explain,” Alfred says, and wrenches himself off the (Arthur’s) couch, legs fumbling and hands moving in desperation. “I…we’re just roommates, you know, and-”

“Yeah, you are – _hic_! – roommates,” Gilbert says, raising a pale eyebrow at their embarrassment and dragging a finger between them. “Very gay roommates. Haven’t noticed that almost everyone rooming here is dating?”

“Yao and Ivan aren’t,” Arthur mumbles, trying to untangle himself from the sensation of Alfred’s warmth, but Gilbert simply reclines against the table and snickers lightly.

“I said _almost_. Keep telling yourself whatever you want to believe, kid,” Gilbert says, using his hand to loosen up his silver hair. “I guess you want to keep it between us?”

“Honestly, I thought you’d be a little more of an asshole than this,” Alfred says, but the way he cocks his eyebrows and snorts at the end of a sentence tells Arthur that the living room isn’t going to be part of a Fight Club reboot. “Like ‘ _dude, that’s so gay_.’”

“Kiddo, I’m literally dating your brother,” he interjects. “The only thing that could _possibly_ make me gayer is marriage.”

“Beilschmidt, you don’t want to open that can of worms in the USA,” Arthur interrupts, laying his forearm over his eyes. “Won’t want to upset some evangelical zombies obsessed about protecting the youth.”

“And they say we were never in an apocalypse,” Gilbert says dramatically, draping his sole wrist against his forehead and tipping his head back.

At this, Arthur just buries his nose in the fold of his arm and passes out.

They fucked up. He's dead.

* * *

_june_

_six crosses on the calendar_

* * *

…apparently, not, though, as Arthur is still sorting through rucksacks and clearing out the shelves of the second floor of their safe house two days later.

Nothing’s happened. Surprisingly, Gilbert Beilschmidt, who Arthur still thought of as a formidable arse, has kept his jaw shut. Jesus Christ, that man can keep a secret – there’s not even a single wink or knowing glance when something remotely gay happens, nor is there an obnoxious _hint, hint._

Although, to be fair, Gilbert has been the subject of anything remotely gay far too many times as he and Matthew can barely keep their three hands from each other’s bodies (blech). From the passionate glances shared when washing dishes to the soft intake of breath every time either of them say each other’s name, Arthur thinks he’s justified when he thinks that even Francis is tired of their excessive before bed make outs.

With tongue.

It’s all right; trusty Arthur has a plastic bag for you to retch in. Just so you know, it’s going to be used as ammo later.

Regardless, Arthur hasn’t had much contact with zombies at all after Matthias and Alfred jointly agreed to stop raids as a whole in the area. They’re moving tomorrow at best and two days at worst, after all. Coming home battered and bruised won’t do anyone any favours. Not that he’s complaining about not being able to shoot at zombies…

“What about dish duty tonight?” Yao pipes up, breaking Arthur’s mist of thought. “Or are you going to make us eat beef jerky again?”

“Uh, no,” Matthias replies, accompanied by a charming stomach growl. “Emil, Francis and Tino volunteered to finish cooking the rest of the venison. Said we can’t afford to be lugging fresh meat around, with the stench and all.”

Emil nods and ducks his head, Francis grips his hand in a dramatic fashion, whereas Tino’s grip on Hana slacks and looks with an expression of astonishment and blurts: “I _did_? Berwald, I thought you-”

The Swede, who’s carefully studying his tea towel, pretends to not hear – but Arthur and Lukas can catch the tips of a smile as they grace his mouth. 

“Goodness, Matthias, how did you know I was trying to maintain my nails?” Francis gasps, affronted, and Arthur tries to bite back a snort and squeezes Lukas’s hand under the table. “If they’re too soft, they’ll bend off.”

“But packing heavy things into bags is even worse for your soft nails!” Matthias says merrily, not to be deterred. “That’s what everyone else is doing anyway, so it’s a perfect duty for you!”

“Do you know how he deals with that pompous Frenchman? I would have punched his face in by now,” Arthur whispers through his teeth to his best friend. “This is a zombie apocalypse, not a nail salon.”

 “… _Excusez-moi_?” Francis sputters, raising a manicured eyebrow at Arthur’s direction. Oops. “ _What_ did you just say, little Englishman?”

 “Arthur,” Lukas says warningly, but even he knows it’s futile as he pushes his chair backwards. “Arthur, reconsider-”

“What did you just call me?” Arthur spits, eyes burning with an iciness. “Oh, you’ll regret that, frog. Are you going to _scratch_ the zombies to death?”

“ _Mon dieu_ ,” Francis swears, and Matthew winces a moment before he practically launches himself at Arthur. His hands scrabble for hair and shirt collar and Arthur shrieks in return, and then he’s seized Francis’s beard and there’s shouting and then the _table_ strains and Matthew is far too thankful that dinner hasn’t started yet. 

“Matthias,” Alfred mutters from two seats away as Berwald dips his head to avoid Arthur’s flying fist, “I think you might want to break this up, buddy.”

Matthias looks at Arthur and Francis’s furious exchange, looks back to his best friend, then briefly considers waving his axe around and maybe cutting off some hair.

Oh no, he’s said it out loud, and Lukas’s hands are in his face. Well, he’s not known for standing around, is he?

 That is, until Gilbert barrels into the two of them, waving his stump, and he shouts that they should ‘save some for him’. Lovino’s tan skin pales, Alfred’s jaw has gone and locked in itself, and Matthew is dead on Alfred’s couch. Somewhere, Matthias somehow knows Tino’s preparing Hana.

Well…at least they were moving in a few days, right?

* * *

Arthur staggers out of dinner just with a slightly swollen cheek, thankfully. Francis has scratches on his forearms, and Gilbert just has a bruised ego, but there’s no lasting damage that doesn’t mean Arthur can curl up against his couch and snore. Stupid escargot slurping frog.

 _Sleep_ , he groans as he hears the shuffle of slippers – the sole owner of a pair in their group, Feliciano, is usually out like a little firefly at eight, seven if he can afford it. They finished off the stew (minus the soap, thankfully) and are relatively well fed for a survivor group. Arthur’s learned to forget the bursting feeling that usually came after bar night with Lukas and Vlad, so he might be able to find some sleep.

Feliciano makes a sound akin to an exhausted tire letting out its air, and Arthur can hear the springs on his and Ludwig’s out of commission bed creak and the door close. Hell, he hopes that the couple know that the walls in this safe house are thin.

Then he hears footsteps, not muffled by footwear and close…and then his blankets pool around his hips, Alfred’s nose presses itself against the small of his neck and his muscular arms wrap around his waist. Arthur’s toes curl as he shifts to face him.

“Sorry,” Alfred offers, mumbling into his neck. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“God, all you had to do was ask,” Arthur says into the quiet night, and the two of them lay there underneath his window, both slowly slipping away.

Arthur’s the first one to fall asleep, with a small bleat reminiscent of the youngest sheep on the farm Alfred used to live in, and a nuzzle into Alfred’s chest. It makes Alfred feel strangely domestic, to see someone with such a flame in their eyes become so vulnerable in his arms.

He arranges the blankets so that Arthur’s covered a little better, and kisses the small wrinkle between his eyes as he lies his head back onto the armrest of Arthur’s couch and succumbs to sleep as well.

* * *

_june_

_eleven crosses on the calendar_  

“Don’t you think we’re packed like sardines here?” Feliciano’s voice pipes up during lunch time at their new safe house – an apartment like structure in a form of a thatched, two storey building. “It’s super small!”

“Italy must have been too kind to you, Feli,” Yao says sagely, taking a sip of the lukewarm tomato soup they managed to reheat from the heat on the walk. “I had a…distant cousin. He lived in this area in his hometown, Hong Kong, which they called a second walled city. They were packed like rats. He didn’t stand a chance once someone got bitten; I haven’t heard from him since August of the outbreak.” 

“Oh…I’m sorry,” Feli says, eyes crumpling.

“I should be the one apologising,” Yao replies, patting the hand of his teammate – the whole group had gone completely silent in response. “I’ve killed the mood.”

“W-Wait,” Emil pipes up, his expression taking on a strange tint. “What’s your cousin’s name-”

“We were eating tomato soup, Yao, there is no mood to kill,” Ivan offers, not unhelpfully, eliciting a grateful smile from his long time partner. “I guess that is why they mult – we should always move.”

“Says the same guy who was so attached to our second safe house,” Alfred mutters under his breath but loud enough to be overheard, fiddling with the left sleeve of his shirt, looking pointedly at the floor. “What, something about ‘let’s never leave this place?’”

“Did you… _say_ something, comrade?” Ivan beams, but the smile is devoid of gentility when he crosses the space between them in two long strides. 

“Yeah, I did,” Alfred shoots back, eyes narrowing – Arthur knew that it was hardly the time, but _Lord did he look attractive when he was angry…_ “Would you like me to repeat it?”

“I do not see a problem,” Ivan says, still wearing that passive aggressive smile that seems to drop the temperature of the room by twenty degrees. “If it would give me perfect excuse to punch you in the face.”

“God, I’d like to see you try, Braginski,” Alfred spits, taking one step closer so they’re almost face to face. “

“All right, that’s enough,” Ludwig interjects, striding in between the two men and pushing them apart from each other. “We’re wretched enough as it is. Finish the soup then we should find places to sleep for our stay. Matthias?”

Matthias, face tense and legs ready to leap in defense of his friend, quickly shook it off. “Grr…oh, uh, yeah, Ludwig, buddy. Let’s stick to the old room plans for now, unless someone wants to change?”

“Yeah,” Alfred growls, “If it means I can be closer to stop this comm-”

“Shut the fuck up, Alfred,” Lovino bites out, thumping the table once. “I don’t want to see you and Ivan air your dirty laundry here. Or any where, for that matter.”

“He’s right,” Yao says, nodding in Lovino’s direction. “I do not want to see any infighting between two grown men. Get over it, both of you. Now." 

The room turns pretty fucking awkward, and Arthur is all too grateful that their original group were practically sunshine and rainbows compared to the sandwich of an argument they’re having now. He’s never been as relieved at Berwald tactfully placing his spoon into his tin can and tilting his glasses – praise the Swedish muscle.

They shuffle back to their lunches and make a mad dash for the rooms as if nothing’s happened.

Save for three people.

* * *

“Emil…you mentioned something, before the two hunks were cat fighting,” Lukas says, hanging up the yellow washing up gloves on a plastic hanger stuck near the faucet. “Something about Yao’s cousin?”

“Yeah, I was gonna ask you about it as well, Emi,” Matthias chimes in, pausing from stacking their dried foods in a defunct fridge. “Do you know him?”

“No, but…I went to this zoo to volunteer for a summer, and I was tasked with taking care of these puffins, along with someone from Hong Kong. I remember he said that he lived in this cramped area where the one good thing about it was the rent was cheap. We kept on talking on Skype, but the last time we talked was October…I sent him a message wishing him happy birthday and he replied. That’s the last time _I_ talked with him.”

“Right, so…if you and Yao are referring to the same guy, you’re saying he might be alive?" 

“Well, yes,” Emil replies, a little relieved that Matthias isn’t treating him like some hopeful lunatic. “I don’t know, though.”

“We best not tell Yao, then,” Lukas says, his tone flat as he removes the spare sweater they call an apron. “Don’t want to get his hopes up.” 

“Thanks for sharing, though, Emil,” Matthias says, and gives him a kiss on his scalp to an embarrassed squeak. “It’s good to hear some news in this time. Did you get a good room?” 

“…W-Why am I rooming with you two again?” Emil complains, but it’s half hearted as he talks about the third bedroom on the first floor – quicker access for a leader. “I’ll go first, if that’s fine. I’m not showering tonight…”

“That’s all right, you can have first pick,” Matthias beams, squeezing his shoulder. “Lukas and I will catch you later, right?”

 “Don’t suck face for the rest of the night!” Emil retorts, throwing it over his shoulder before closing the door.

“What are you, Father of the Year? Doting on him like that,” Lukas teases, and fought to push a smile down his throat as Matthias turns to him, laughter still dancing on his lips. “You’re going to topple me from my throne.”

“Who says? We can build another one and I can sit with you, holding your hand,” Matthias coos, kissing his temple. 

“Yuck,” Lukas grimaces, but doesn’t brush it off. “We’d be terrible rulers.” 

“Better than…you know,” Matthias says, willing his tufty eyebrows. “They’re pretty obvious when you can hear them kissing forty centimetres away.”

“Honestly, by the way Arthur was sticking by his side these past four days told me more than their words could ever say,” Lukas says. “Hell, even a dunce like you could see it. If they’re trying to be discreet, they’re doing a disastrous job.”

“Aww, not every single group’s as good as us to watch out for budding romances like ours,”

“Just because we have a trained Finnish sniper doesn’t mean we’re automatically good,” Lukas chides, but lets Matthias take his hand out of the kitchen – he’d allow it _just_ for today. “Still…you could cut that sexual tension with a knife.”

“I mean, if it fed us, I’d do it,” Matthias says, giving him a wink. “But we’re still hotter.”

“I’ve never doubted that,” Lukas sighs, and shuts his eyes and pecks him quickly on his cheek.

Ew, young love.


	11. xi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which alfred and arthur are too close to the stars, and alfred leaves.

* * *

  _june_

_twelve crosses on the calendar_

* * *

It’s too bad Alfred’s body is a radiator.

After all, it’s the surface that Arthur hauls himself off every dreary morning, breath jagged like a dry sponge when Alfred exhales in protest. But on days where Alfred slips away before Arthur steals back his subconscious, the chill permeates his skin even in the worst nights packed to the brim with heat.

 _It’s a heat flash_ , his paranoid side tells him when he sleepily paws for Alfred, heart a hummingbird in its cage as the feeling of Alfred bailing flits through his mind. _It has to be._

It would be so much easier if it was a medical condition compared to his infatuation.

Sometimes Alfred leaves behind a shirt (secretly, that gets Arthur looking for him faster than when he doesn’t), but mostly it’s the loss of their shared heartbeat that spurs Arthur to go searching.

He usually perches out on the stripped back lawn of their new safe house – there isn’t a patio any longer. His eyes search for a hint of colour on the bare sky of the apocalypse, watered blues and puffy clouds dotting the landscape, no sound leaving his mouth until Arthur chastises him.

Arthur won’t admit the fact that he likes it when Alfred kisses him once every time he catches him, briefly, hand lingering on his forearm before making his way back to the house.

But when he jerks awake, darkness wraps the sky and the tell tale gleam of Alfred’s glasses aren’t there. He’s wandered outside.

Arthur gets up, barely registering the slump of Alfred’s faded towel over his shoulders as he makes his way outside. The silence threatens to swallow him, coupled with the lack of wind. The only thing accompanying his footsteps are his short, quick breaths as he stops, waiting to hear a door creak open or a low growl to be heard outside. 

Nothing.

He watches the velvet night sky tonight, and for a moment Arthur is too tempted to go up on tiptoe and sneak up on him, but from where he can see, Alfred is too wrapped up in his own peace. His head is tilted upwards, blurred stars in his eyes, and his back muscles flex as he leans back, arms supporting his weight, shirt draped on his lap. Arthur can’t fucking take his eyes off him.

Arthur’s lips part to speak, but before a single word can come from it Alfred whips around, eyes like chips of glass, fear reflecting off them until he realises it’s Arthur – but curiosity has already infected his mind. 

“Sorry if I woke you up,” Alfred mumbles, getting back up and flexing – _absolutely_ on purpose, Arthur bitches - his back before turning back to face Arthur, slipping his grey shirt back on. “I just had to...you know. Think.”

“God, that’s not like the hunk I know, rushing into battle,” Arthur teases, but quiets down quickly. “Alfred...why were you so scared when I showed up?”

 “I wasn’t _scared_ ,” Alfred says briskly, resuming sitting back on the pavement. A long unused road of some sorts stretches a short two metres away from them, the yellow and white paint long gone. The dry, dead grass scratches Arthur’s bum a little when he moves to sit next to Alfred. “I just...you surprised me, that’s all.”

“But you wouldn’t look scared if you were just startled,” Arthur reasons, and stares a little at Alfred’s shoulder before looking away, hoping Alfred hadn’t noticed. “You looked like I was gonna eat you.”

“...fine, I wasn’t just _startled_ , but don’t tell anyone,” Alfred says, and it lacks the banter that’s usually in his voice as he looks directly into Arthur’s eyes – shit, he did notice. “Sorry for waking you up. You can lean on me...if you’d like.”

“It...it’s just because of that,” Arthur says, flustered – and it’s almost embarrassing at the little sigh he lets out when he leans against Alfred and relieved curl of his toes, placing his cheek on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t I look pathetic out here, looking at dead space rocks in the sky?” Alfred mumbles, and pushes in his glasses with the palm of his right hand. “Only a few months before, I was running around like a mouse possessed delivering calculations and talking to my professors. Now I feel like I’m a useless piece of shit.”

“Lord Almighty, I was an English major,” Arthur retorts, “I’ve used my strengths in analysing what’s probably fuel now.”

“You know how to use a bow and arrow.”

 “I can absolutely be trusted to go all Katniss Everdeen on zombies, yes,” Arthur sighs. “Point is, Alfred, no one was prepared. An apocalypse is the plot of _The Walking Dead_ , not real life. So what if Tino knows how to snipe? He didn’t do it for the apocalypse, did he?” 

“I’m sick of feeling useless, Arthur,” Alfred moans, and lifts his glasses to cover his eyes with his hand. “Hero or not, I’m hardly an expert at swinging a weapon to kill zombies. What kind of leader does that make me?”

“Oi, when was the definition of ‘leader’ a zombie hunter?” Arthur says, fixing Alfred with a harsh glare. “You held your group together before you met us. Your brother’s right, Alfred, where he said strength in numbers. Even Ludwig wouldn’t survive three months by himself. And you let Gilbert stay. Some groups would feed his ass to the zombies first chance they had.”

“Trust me, the fucker’s dating my brother. I won’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind two or three times,” Alfred grumbles, but tilts his head a little. “It’s...I don’t like anyone seeing me vulnerable. That’s why I slip out, sometimes. When it gets too loud, even though half of the world is dead.”

“Not even Matthew?”

“Not even Matthew." 

“Then why,” Arthur murmurs, lifting his head from Alfred’s shoulders and moving closer, pulling Alfred’s towel around his torso as he touches his nose to his. “Why do you let me in?” 

“Does this count as an answer?” Alfred replies, and captures his lips in an open mouthed kiss, one hand interlacing with his own.

“No, it doesn’t,” Arthur says breathlessly, his cheeks pinking. “I’d like a full explanation, written in Times New Roman font, size 13. Two pages.” 

“Is this your way of saying you want more?” Alfred grins devilishly, taking off his shirt in one swift motion and _shit_ Arthur’s salivating. “Once you’re done staring, we can switch.”

It’s an awkward five minutes of Arthur doing his best to remove the towel and unbuttoning his brown shirt while still staring at his...romantic interest? Lover?

Jesus, no matter how he puts it, it’s starting to sound more and more like a trashy dollar store romance novel. _Quote: I touched his abs, my under-_

Arthur will never admit to downloading those sorts of books on his old Kindle – those romance novels with a constant 35% discount with shirtless, sweaty men looking at a predetermined angle with an obsessive font at the bottom which feel like they belong on a Hallmark Christmas card.

“Isn’t...this slightly unhygienic?” Arthur stammers, shaking himself out of his stupid thoughts.

 “We share saliva when we kiss,” Alfred replies, shrugging on Arthur’s shirt – to Arthur’s embarrassment, he tries to button it shut but quickly gives up, leaving his chest exposed. “I guess it’s not the cleanest. Anyway, we’re in a zombie apocalypse. I feel lucky that we even get to take a shower.”

 “To be fair, we’re not exactly prepping for a white glove test,” Arthur says, slipping Alfred’s shirt over his head – the material’s lighter than he thinks. Surprisingly sweat absorbent, as well – something else he won’t admit smells nice. “God save us if we run into a horde, though.”

 “Tino can snipe them like the time Lukas hurt his ankle.” 

“That was hardly a horde,” Arthur retorts. “That was a fiftieth school anniversary get together. A thousand isn’t something we can take down.” 

“I guess we just have to move from there. Hey, Artie, did you know that not all stars are white?” Alfred grins, lifting his head to look at the sky – now with next to no pollution, the stars shine valiantly. One good thing about this fucked up life.

 “Let me guess,” Arthur says, and watches his own reflection in Alfred’s blue eyes. “There are blue stars?”

“Huh? How did you guess-” Alfred stammers, but the way his eyes are fixated on the sky tell Arthur that it’s a perfect chance to slip back inside. 

“No matter,” Arthur says, looking at his eyes once more before slipping out of his grip and making his way back into the safe house. “Just...a guess. Take all the time you need.”

“Artie – Arthur? Wait-”

Arthur doesn’t turn back, and tugs Alfred’s shirt a little closer to himself as he closes the doorknob.

* * *

The breakfast’s canned minestrone, and it’s so bad that it causes Feliciano to seemingly burst into tears at his first bite.

Arthur doesn’t blame him, the mush that’s supposed to be pasta doesn’t even resemble ever having touched a carbohydrate. Leaving out in the sun to heat (thanks, Gilbert) has turned it into unglorified slop that sits miserably in everyone’s bowls.

“M-Matthias,” Ivan says quietly under his breath; he’s eating it out of the can with Yao. “Are we doing another raid soon?”

“We just settled in,” comes the reply, muffled by mashed carrots. “Maybe we can wait a bit.”

“But we do not even know the lay of the land,” Ivan reasons, rubbing the side of his forearm awkwardly. “It might be best.”

Arthur chances a glance at Alfred – his expression is carefully neutral as he watches Francis and Lovino attempt to comfort the distraught Feliciano over another culinary murder. No brawls just yet.

“Okay, I’ll ask Al and the rest of the group after we finish these cans,” Matthias says, and slurps loudly. Lukas looks up from his conversation with Tino and Berwald, makes a face at him, then exchanges snorts with Arthur. 

Arthur finishes his soup, stops to have a quick word with Matthew (“Please, don’t ever let him put the soup outside again,”) then settles down with the three of them. Emil is still sulking at the table, head dithering as he squints at the blurry instructions of the can parked in front of them.

“Wonder if Densen’s going to send out a massive group this time,” Tino says, left hand fiddling with the top button on his polo. “Hopefully we’ve trekked to a good suburb.”

“M’ght be a lot of neighbours,” Berwald muses, chin tilted towards the broken window, “Pr’bably unwelcome.”

“That is, if they’re still alive,” Lukas says, and takes a sip of the half empty water bottle perched on the broken window sill, where it liaisons with hollow flower beds. “If not, the team’s going to have the world’s worst housewarming party.”

“Who wants to go?”

“Who _doesn’t,_ ” Tino remarks dryly, “Lord, even _I_ want to go. I know it’s dangerous out there, but whatever. Better go down swinging with Berwald than being surrounded by a horde.”

“Th’t is a compliment?” Berwald jokes, and Arthur can hear the smile in his voice as he leans down and Tino ruffles his hair, leaving a kiss on his stubble before reaching for the water again. God, aren’t they sickeningly sweet. Arthur’s slightly jealous of their sugar sweet relationship (and Matthias and Lukas’s, for that matter. Everything seems so much easier for them). “But I do w’nt to go.”

“Well,” Lukas says, giving Matthias a side glance, “We’ll find out later this afternoon, I suppose."

Arthur secretly hopes that he’ll get to go as well. Dangerous or not, it’s been a while.

* * *

Jesus H Christ, he should have seen this coming a mile away. Alfred’s deputy leader in the group. Of _COURSE_ they had formed an attachment. Somewhere beneath all that sexual tension and too-long hand holding sessions, they’ve found something for each other.

And that something’s the reason Arthur’s staying when Alfred’s going.

God _damn it all_. What if he d- 

Arthur yells at him, grabs his shirt and shouts in the same spot where they watched the stars earlier that night. He says a load of shit, shouts at him that there was still time to change his mind. Alfred yells right back, gripping Arthur’s shoulders and telling him _fuck no_ , _you’re staying right here because Matthias and I have decided you’re going to!_

What Alfred doesn’t say is _I’m trying to protect you_.

Arthur nearly rips his shirt off in his frustration; Alfred tempted to do the same while they’re still both in each other’s clothes. Words after words after words, dirty and scarring in their nature, fly between them – but four words lay unspoken in their throats after they break off for the night. They don’t want to wake anyone up.

 _I’m worried about you_ , Arthur thinks the next morning when Alfred opens the bathroom door to see him.

_Why are we separating?_

_Come back home, please,_ Arthur whispers in his head as Alfred slings Lovino’s baseball bat over his shoulder, nodding once to the Italian. He’s not going either, but what does he care?

_Don’t leave without me._

The phrase whirls around in his mind as Alfred kisses him once more, rushed, angry, passionately in the kitchen before he goes. Arthur’s fingers rest on his chest, still wearing the brown shirt, until Alfred pulls apart, eyes brimming with something unspoken as he walks out the door and Arthur is left alone in the kitchen.


	12. xii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which heracles is slightly offended, and arthur internally heaps loathing on francis.
> 
> and the author's finally free of exams - and she would like to apologise for the stupid long hiatus. ^^||

* * *

_june_

_thirteen crosses on the calendar_

* * *

 “So,” Heracles warbles, pulling at his collar and wincing at the heat, “Matthias isn’t coming with us today?”

“After what happened-

“Yeah, because of the last time at the old safe house,” Alfred mutters under his breath - had Heracles already forgotten their mission? “Matthias and I thought it was stupid to have both leaders go out at the same time.”

“Oh, I see,” Heracles says, and Alfred thought that was the end of the weird conversation, but Heracles stopped him with a pat on the shoulder. “But that is not what is upsetting you, correct? You seem okay with that decision. You’re still tense.”

“Going out to somewhere new is kind of stressful, if you haven’t noticed,” Alfred bites out, fixing at his backpack strap as he squints outside his glasses. “Don’t you think it’s hard as well?”

“Well, I do,” Heracles says nonchalantly, “But it’s not that. Your sort of anger isn’t apprehensive…the atmosphere’s a lot more yearning. Like you’re sorry about something.”

 _God, it’s the atmosphere again_ , Alfred internally groans, blinking. _Something Matt says I can never read._ “…really?”

“Mhmm,” Heracles nods, and the movement’s so _goddamn_ casual that Alfred can’t help but be a touch jealous of his laid-backness. “The way you’re moping and adjusting your strap over and over again tells me that. Who’s that you’re pining for?”

“Uh-” 

“If,” Heracles says sharply, his voice dropping by what feels like two octaves, “If you are after Kiku, I will quickly change your mind. He is not that sort to-”

“Come on, man, I’m not that kind of guy,” Alfred hisses, and jerks his head away from his teammate. “Cheating isn’t my style.”

“The thing with Ludwig…” 

“I don’t have a childhood friend to run off with,” Alfred replies, doing his best to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Keeks is just a friend. You two are cute together. Chill, buddy.”

“Okay,” Heracles says, and for a while there is nothing but silence simmering between them, accompanied by the harsh staccato of their footsteps. “But still, who is it?”

Alfred avoids his gaze, adjusting Arthur’s shirt as he keeps on walking. “No one in particular. I just worry for Matt sometimes, and Lovino’s having some trouble lately. Feli’s with us today, so. Don’t want my group to be all messy.”

Heracles suspects that he’s lying (seriously, if he moped so miserably about his brother there would be some _serious_ Southern problems), but doesn’t question him nonetheless.

“Well, if you have any problems, you can come speak to me,” Heracles says after a pause. “Because as the second leader, there will always be an effect on the group thanks to your feelings.”

“Thanks, Hercules,” Alfred mumbles, and doesn’t even notice his slip-up until Heracles raises an annoyed eyebrow and nudges him, a surprisingly gentle move when he considers the amount of muscle that his teammate’s built up. “Sorry, sorry. Force o’habit. I love Disney.”

“Hmm,” Heracles says, but Alfred knows, after five months, that the guy’s too laid back to really start an argument over it (unlike _some_ Russian asshole) and they don’t talk the rest of the trip.

That is, all ten minutes of it before they’re faced with three people, eyes filled with wary and weapons in their hands edging out from behind a Chicago ghetto house that looks miserable, even with bright yellow paint slapped onto it. 

Shit.

* * *

 

“Who the fuck are you guys?” one of them shouts, a lot more hostile than Matthias’s first greeting (and slightly less homosexual). They’re in a clustered group of three - the one boy is wearing a tattered brown cardigan for some odd reason in this blistering heat, but the other two girls are wearing tank tops and hostile expressions on their faces. “We haven’t seen anyone else since April. Where did you come from?”

“We…what?” Alfred splutters, then realises that Yao’s cool gaze is waiting for him to make a move. “Uh. We just arrived in the area a few days ago. We were just…exploring.”

“Absolutely, slugger,” the same girl shouts, a few loose strands of her hair catching on her bandanna as she glares at Lovino’s baseball bat perched on Alfred’s shoulders. “Who says you’re not looking to loot some empty houses?”

“Okay, everyone just calm the fuck down,” Alfred says darkly, dropping the bat from his shoulders. “We just came here two days ago. We found shelter in an abandoned house half an hour from here. We’re exploring the surroundings. That’s it.”

The trio exchange surprised looks. “They’re living in Eliza’s old hut?” the boy with the cardigan pipes up; his voice is reedy and receding. “You said that it was picked clean-”

“Sey, that hut doesn’t belong to us,” the second girl speaks, her dark brown hair loose behind her shoulders as she tugs at her companion. “We should probably leave them alone, as per Protocol Seven. There could be-” 

“You know what happened last time with Leon and Chi An,” comes the curt reply. ‘Sey’ has dark, satiny coloured skin and freckles that bunch up just on the bridge of her nose which wrinkle together as she frowns. “Rod won’t like it, his rules or not. I’ll bring this handful to him.” 

“Leon?” Yao starts, and there’s palatable shock reflecting in his eyes, and he drops the hand on his weapon. “Wait, did the two of you say Leon?” 

“What’s it to you?” Sey’s friend asks, although her tone is less confrontational and more curious. “Someone named Leon arrived two months ago, yes." 

“Is he still alive?” Yao gasps, and Alfred quickly flashbacks to their late night conversation about Yao’s cousin. When the girl replies _yes_ , Yao seems more than prepared to spout questions before Francis taps his shoulder and whispers something in his ear. Alfred doesn’t bristle; he’s been with Francis since the start, but after a moment Yao apologises and steps back. 

“N-no problem,” the girl says awkwardly, tucking a long strand of hair behind her ear. She looks like as if she wants to say a little more, but at that moment the boy taps her shoulder and mouths something, and she backs down. “Follow me, then. Don’t touch anything.”

Alfred bites back a retort, and instead uses his precious time to make sure that the six members of his ragtag group are okay. Himself, check. Yao, Francis, check. Heracles and Feli, check. Emil, straightening his sock, check. 

“Weapons at the ready,” Alfred murmurs, and notices them slip into pairs. Emil edges next to him, expression brimming with resolve as he fiddles with the safety on his gun. “This could get nasty.”

“I’m all right, Alfred,” the young Icelandic teen says, his accent catching on Alfred’s name as the two of them walk in front of their group.

* * *

 

Kiku always wears a trinket tucked underneath his jacket.

He’s holding a book, practising his pronunciation while Arthur coaches him - it’s not a bad way to spend the afternoon, surely. They’re even reading one of Arthur’s favourite classics - _Pride and Prejudice_ \- and even if Kiku’s accent stumbles on words such as ‘irreverent’ and ‘meandering’, he’s getting there. He internally thanks Alfred for this little blessing of entertainment; how did he know…?

Regardless, the small time in the States have rendered Kiku’s English functional, so it’s now Arthur’s job to piece away the accent.

“ _Eee-revurento_ ,” Kiku mouths as he points at the word. “Is that how you would say it?” 

“Irreverent,” Arthur says, and pauses once he realises that it’s doing literally _nothing_. “Umm…for starters, we just have the ’t’ sound, there’s no ‘o’. Maybe, um, think of it as a finger snap? When it goes _snap,_ say the t sound along with it - oh, um, just listen to me do it.”

Amusement flitters onto Kiku’s usually neutral face, and he listens to Arthur make an utter _fool_ of himself making tutting noises at the same time as he snaps his fingers to some invisible beat. Maybe it was for the best that he didn’t finish his degree.

But it works, and by the time Tino and Ludwig return back from the second floor, dusty blankets ready to be left out on the banister and clutching an oversized pillow, edges thinning. It’s almost hilarious how Ludwig, a buff man who seems like he used to eat weights for a hobby on YouTube, announces that he’s searching for a mat for the bathroom floor after a shower while Arthur’s repeating “the intercourse of friendship or civility” and Kiku turning beet red and asking “…intercourse?” (“No, no, it’s not like that…”)

At the end of that chapter, Kiku’s scarlet face is buried in his hands and Arthur gently folds the corner of the book and tucks it under the pillow of his couch. Perhaps they would have an easier time if he asked Kiku to teach him some Japanese? Subconsciously, he touches his chin and winces at the hint of stubble - the packs of ‘disposable’ razors aren’t going to last a male household of too many for too long. “Um, Kiku. Do you want anything for dinner? I can fix it with Tin-” 

“Hm? Oh, no, no, it is all right,” Kiku says quickly, bolting up so fast from his hunched shape that Arthur blinks in surprise. “Berwald and I had agreed to prepare dinner this evening. Please, take a rest before dinner." 

“Um…all right, then,” Arthur says awkwardly, touching his friend’s forearm. “Could you tell Matthias I’m taking a shower? And is there a problem with me co-”

“Absolutely _not_ , Arthur,” Kiku says, his eyes closing in a pleasant formality. “I will pass the message on.”

 _Huh_ , Arthur thinks to himself, still slightly weirded out. _Was Pride and Prejudice that ghastly? I haven’t even gotten onto Lydia yet…_

* * *

Dinner that night’s quiet.

For once, the frog’s not smirking at the dinner table while neatly cutting his roughage using a disposable piece of cutlery, so Arthur can calmly lift a forkful of soggy, lukewarm cabbage to his lips. It’s been boiled with a pinch of salt, so at least it has some flavour. Arthur internally thanks what sliver of a lucky star he has that Berwald’s cooking tonight.

He wonders whether Alfred’s having dinner tonight at all, and quickly banishes the thought from his mind. Whatever semblance of a relationship they had was over after what happened in the kitchen. Alfred’s probably on Cloud Nine, finally glad to be rid of him. 

Suddenly he feels as limp as the cabbage on his fork and he hates himself for it. He isn’t supposed to fall for him. It’s a zombie apocalypse; he doesn’t have the luxury of being in a romance novel.

It doesn’t help that literally no one makes conversation that night – the group’s absence is felt even more strongly as it’s a completely new territory for everyone involved. Ludwig eats dinner without passing a single sound and scoops up Arthur and Kiku’s plates on his way out, but Arthur’s too tired to argue. The silence of the group is enough so that Arthur knows he and Kiku won’t be able to concentrate on any lesson, Japanese or English or Pride and Prejudice. They retire at eight (according to the tiny plastic clock perched on the shelf in Gilbert and Matthew’s room) and for once, Arthur doesn’t go to sleep with the sounds of Alfred breathing or Alfred’s skin against his own.

His shirt does nothing to alleviate his worry – in fact, Arthur decides to change out of it in the worries that it’ll lose Alfred’s smell.

 _Nothing bad’s happened to them_ , Arthur tries to console him – he knows Matthias and Lukas will be worried for Emil tonight. Ludwig and Kiku will be thinking of their respective partners, and for the frog...God, Arthur doesn’t know. His bed would probably be missing his pasty French bottie warming it. 

 _Maybe I should leave the worrying to Matthew_ , Arthur thinks, but twists around and doesn't get as much sleep as he wants to.

Somewhere, lying at the bottom of his ribcage, he knows he won’t get a wink of sleep tonight. Not without that fucked up American boy.


	13. xiii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which alfred tries to keep his group together, and arthur learns how to handle another weapon.

* * *

_june_

_fifteen crosses on the calendar_

* * *

 

Alfred wakes up to the sound of arguing on the porch.

“What should we tell them? We have to let them go home sooner or later.”

“Mei, what if they send their people to take over the camp? We can’t risk that.” 

Last night they weren’t even given a bite to eat. Stupidly, the group let them keep their bags and everything, but that’s far from ensuring that the team’s in good shape. They were herded into a small outhouse, and even though Alfred took a sip from the water bottle he had in his bag he can feel Emil’s form next to him, trembling with hunger – other than that, everyone else is awake. Francis is nibbling morosely on a granola bar, but everyone’s eyes are vacant. It’s clear that they’re waiting for something, and it takes Alfred at least five minutes to realise it’s him.

“No, I doubt they have a large group. They weren’t especially well stocked, were they? Sey said that she could hear someone’s stomach growling last night.” It’s the same voice of the boy in the cardigan, and Alfred grits his teeth – Christ, they were so fucking wrong. It was supposed to be a day trip.

He was supposed to be asleep, Arthur’s soft face pressed against his chest, the slow morning surrounding them.

But Emil’s just a kid and his teammates are hungry, and if Feliciano starts crying Alfred knows it’s game over. The Italian already looks a shade past miserable, and honestly Alfred doesn’t know how to calm him down. He should have gotten a care book from Ludwig. Like a babysitting manual. 

So he wakes Emil up. The teen looks disoriented for a moment, grumbling Lukas’s name before he jolts awake, bleary eyes doing a quick scan across the room, cheeks flushed as he realises his mistake.

“What’s happened since I was...” Emil begins, and examines his clothes self consciously.

“Nothing special that you have to write home about,” Francis says, “We’re being trapped like animals. Any moment now they’re going to figure we’re awake.”

“God knows what they’re going to do to us then,” Yao mutters, adjusting the sweat soaked strap of his backpack. “Well, leader, what do we do now?”

“Stick together,” Alfred replies – he’s seen all the seasons of the Walking Dead, played the Telltale spinoff, etc, to know that that’s the best idea. “We travelled together in a pair, right? Then we should-” 

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence when the door opens and the six survivors squint their eyes at the immediate light. Alfred can feel Emil’s shoulders hunching against his shoulder, and it reminds him of a baby chick whose feathers are fluffing up.

The trio have tripled to a group crowding around the tiny door, eyes owlish yet threatening. Heracles can glimpse wooden crates festooned all over the floor, but it’s the threatening weapons, from clubs to guns, that worry him the most.

It’s a clear message – that they’re in their camp, now.

* * *

The metal’s cool against his skin as he tilts the end of the revolver towards where a brown glass bottle is perched meekly in the grass. The pressure’s even higher on Arthur’s shoulders when after a few minutes, Ludwig decided it was a waste of time and resources to even try to make blanks.

Without Tino’s presence, though, Arthur’s hands would be trembling tenfold than they are now. Ludwig’s letting him try a smaller one with less recoil (whatever that means) and Arthur’s just been briefed lightly on safety protocol.

By the time he’s been instructed to double, triple, quadruple check that there’s only a tiny amount of rounds left in the weapon, Arthur’s able to hold the thing with just his two hands. He’s perfectly aware of the fact that in times like these, where a piece of metal is a ticket between being reanimated and/or death, that he can’t waste it.

 Arthur points it to the bottle, keeping the barrel of the gun pointed to the floor even when he’s loading it. Then he positions it – and almost jumps a kilometre in the air when a pair of large hands wrap around his ears.

“Holy fuck!” Arthur shouts, and he feels the vibrations of Tino’s feet on the dry grass as he runs over to them. “Please, give me a warning before you slap your hands over my ears." 

“What happened? Are you injured, Arthur?” Tino blurts, before realising that the only thing that had actually happened was that Ludwig had put his hands over Arthur’s ears. “Oh." 

“Tino, I thought it would help...at least, you said that many first time learners needed to have their ears covered. Recoil and everything.” Ludwig is slightly embarrassed by the way Arthur can hear the muffled sound of his heel scuffing the dirt. “It’s for the-”

“You clearly know what you’re doing,” Tino says in a slightly dismissive tone, “Keep on going, Ludwig.”

“Take a deep breath before you shoot,” Ludwig instructs, to which he places his hands over Arthur’s ears again (with far more warning this time). Arthur shuts his eyes, takes a long deep breath, and then refocuses his aim.

It lands, to his pleasant surprise. Not square in the middle, a little more to the right than Arthur would have wanted, but it smashes the bottle into pieces. Normally, he would be on the look out for any zombies attracted by the noise, but Lovino and Ivan had done a scout earlier that morning.

Ludwig removes his hands, and Arthur turns to face them, turning on the safety lock before handing it off to him. Tino bounds over, and there’s a hint of satisfaction in the sniper’s face – even though handguns aren’t really his thing, he still knows far more about firearms than Arthur could manage.

“I suppose your archery training came in handy,” Tino says approvingly. “Not a lot of people can hit the target on the first try – and a bottle’s not that large.”

“Yes, well, aiming’s just one part of it,” Arthur admits. “I don’t think I’ll always have a Ludwig Beilschmidt to close my ears.”

“Maybe not a Ludwig, no,” Tino says, waving once at the German at the cue to troop back into the safe house to get something to clean up the glass. “Someone else, perhaps?” 

“...what do you mean by that?” Arthur asks, a little confused. “I don’t think anyone has the time-”

“No, not that – I suppose you would put it as ‘metaphor’,” Tino says, and there’s a hint of amusement under cutting the tone. “So to speak, someone would be – _should_ be padding after you.”

“What, like...?”

“Surely you must have noticed the beautiful, fit men we have in our company,” Tino teases, giving his friend a playful shrug. “I mean, I do understand that Emil is far too young for these relationships-”

“Tino, he’s sixteen, not eight-”

“Regardless, he is still our baby. But somehow, even Lukas has come clean with his feelings, finally. Are you sure you don’t have your eye on someone...?”

“Absolutely _not_ , Mom,” Arthur retorts, and God he can already feel the heat on his cheeks.

“You’re blushing,” Tino coos, and Arthur can only shove him playfully, the two laughing as they retreat back into the outhouse.

* * *

It’s the end of the day, and Feli is exhausted, his metal spoon clanking weakly against his bowl. It feels like summer camp all over again, in this sweltering heat – that is, if summer camp was filled with people who hated your guts.

Oh, wait...

“How long are they going to keep us here?” Heracles mumbles in Francis’s left ear, pushing back a snarl of brown hair behind his ear. “Seriously, the food is _terrible_. Soupy, baked beans aren’t going to keep Felci alive for much longer.”

 “I’m more worried about what they’re going to do with us,” Alfred says, wrinkling his nose at the soggy potato he’s just wolfed down. Too bad Ludwig’s not here (again). “Best case scenario, they let us go. Worst case...”

“Starve us? They could be interested in killing us, you know,” Emil replies, casting a quick look at the rest of the camp situated near the end of the actual table. _Their_ dinner table was a set of three crates, stacked in a horizontal line. “For our supplies..." 

“I don’t...that trio was nice to us at the start, right?” Feliciano says weakly. Heracles just gives him a hug.

“Not just us,” Yao says, looking away. “They know we have a group backing us. The _actual_ worst scenario is a hostage situation. They’re going to use us as leverage for supplies, maybe.”

“Christ, don’t give them any smart ideas,” Francis snaps, his smooth lips forming a tight line. “I swear to God, Yao, if you were another decibel louder they would have gotten the idea.”

“Francis, I doubt no one’s thought of that,” Yao says tersely, tapping his fingers on the middle crate. “Listen. Should we even break ou-”

“Yao, you’re doing it again!”

“What do you expect me to do?” Yao replies coldly, facing Francis with a steely glare. “Lower my voice and pretend to be a mouse? Ivan and I were the ones that busted you out of the Food Bank, don’t forget-”

“Hey, you two, not now,” Heracles starts, uncrossing his legs and loosening his grip on Feli’s torso. “We’re supposed to stick together.”

“I will when this _laowai_ stops expecting us to scurry around like rodents and not talk about this ridiculous situation,” Yao says coldly, and it bizarrely reminds Alfred of Tino’s initial reaction to their group. “I’m sorry, but I’d rather resist then go bow at someone’s feet and surrender.”

“Oh, and we are about to go running out of the camp to our own freedom,” Francis retorts, huffing. “You need not be so reckless." 

“I’d rather be known as reckless than a coward!”

Oh, boy. Heracles buries his face in his hands and Feli is doing his best to persuade them to frankly shut the fuck up, while Alfred can only wonder what in God’s name he’s doing wrong. It was just supposed to be a day trip. It was just supposed to be a goddamn day trip, not an episode of _Locked Up Abroad_.

Alfred would rather balance coconuts on his chest at this point than admit to Arthur that he now needs his help, but shit he does.

“Alfred,” Emil says, and Alfred can sense the undercurrent of fear and confusion in his voice, “What are we going to do _now_?" 

 _Sticking together isn’t working,_ Alfred curses internally. “I don’t know, Emil.”

“I really don’t.”

In the pit of his stomach, Alfred knows he won’t get any rest for the wicked tonight.


End file.
